


Together

by spockandawe



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Ashen Romance | Auspistice, Authority Figures, Blood and Injury, Body Modification, Bondage, Bonding, Breastfeeding, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Casual Sex, Chatlogs, Choking, Cock Piercing, Developing Relationship, Dissociation, Dom/sub, Double Penetration, Dubious Consent, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation, Emotions, Energon, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Eye Trauma, F/F, F/M, Face-Sitting, Fingerfucking, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Fucking Machines, Gags, Gen, Genital Piercing, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Gun Kink, Hate Sex, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Suicide, In Public, Jealousy, Large Cock, Light Bondage, Lobotomy, Love Bites, M/M, Mania, Marriage of Convenience, Masturbation, Mild Blood, Mind Manipulation, Minor Violence, Mnemosurgery, Morning After, Mouth Kink, Multi, Music, Mutual Masturbation, Nipple Piercings, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Object Insertion, Objectification, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Panic Attacks, Personified Cities, Pocket Watches, Poetry, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prayer, Punishment, Reunions, Roleplay, Romantic Fluff, Rough Body Play, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safewords, Scene Gone Wrong, Science Boyfriends, Self-Destruction, Sensory Deprivation, Service, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Roleplay, Singing, Size Difference, Sweet, Swords, Teasing, Technology, Temperature Play, Threesome, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, Trojan War, Trust, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love, Vibrators, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2018-05-28 07:35:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 70
Words: 104,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6320311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spockandawe/pseuds/spockandawe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of one-shots, attempting to write an IDW transformers story for every kink on the kink bingo dreamwidth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drift/Wing: Blades

**Author's Note:**

> [Kink Bingo](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> There are 98 kinks listed, but some of them *coughtwentykindsofimpactplaycough* can be hard to manage for giant space robots. So I'm skipping kinks I can't find a fun way to write, and some kinks will probably be duplicated as time goes on, if I have ideas I want to work with. Ships will repeat, but I really want to include a lot of shipping variety too. Basically, I'm aiming to have fun within a loose structure that's mostly just there to give me direction.
> 
> Some of the stories may need content warnings, but those will go in the notes at the beginning of the individual chapters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a little bit of blood/energon being spilled in this story
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/141465179176/relationship-driftwing-rating-m-words-706-kink)

                Wing settles himself against you, and you manage not to react until he rocks his hips against yours. You keep your face steady, but he’s so warm and wet, you can’t help it—your fans kick up a notch. It’s quiet, but his mouth turns up at the corners, and you know he notices. And then he sets the edge of his sword under your chin.

                “Now, Drift,” he murmurs. “Hands above your head.”

                “Why? Afraid I’d turn the tables if we were on an equal playing field?”

                But you obey him. And Wing, he just smiles at you, so patient and so _gentle_ you can’t stand it, you just want to punch the smile off his face, or—or something.

                “Leave your hands where they are until I tell you to move them. And let’s not have the rest of you moving either.” He rocks against you again, and you hiss through your teeth. “You don’t have much leverage to speak of, but you’re an inventive mech, and I’ve got you right where I want you.”

                You open your mouth to argue—but he presses his sword just that little bit harder, until you can feel the edge starting to bite into the cables of your throat. You hardly even know what expression you must be making now, but Wing just curls forward far enough to press one soft kiss to your cheek.

                While bends forward and when he straightens again, the sword doesn’t move a millimeter from where he has it resting. And when he braces his free hand against your chestplate and starts to rock against you, the sword doesn’t move then, either.

                You’re determined to outlast him. You’re _certain_ you can outlast him. That determination lasts all of a moment, and then suddenly it’s _unbearable_ , the slide of his valve against your spike is too perfect, you want to move, you want to grab his hips and pull him down against you. You want to control the rhythm, push him faster, _harder—_

                “ _Drift_ ,” he says. A warning. He’s still smiling. You want to stop him from smiling, you want him gasping and _needing_ , you want to do the same things to him that’s doing to you—

                You… don’t move your hands. You’re not going to lose, not like that. You couldn’t stand the pity and understanding he’d give you for surrendering that way. You cheat in subtler ways. You arch your hips up against him, as best as you can, stutter his rhythm. It doesn’t work. He doesn’t even have the common decency to acknowledge you’re cheating at the game, just adjusts himself to you as easy as anything.

                When you try to roll your hips sideways, throw him off balance, that doesn’t work either. And it doesn’t get you a word of warning either. Instead his sword presses just a hair harder, _just_ enough that you feel a drop of energon spill down your neck. _Nnh._ You fight the urge to freeze, struggle against him—it’s not going to do you any good, but just a little more, just—

                His sword bites just a touch deeper, until the energon drips down your neck at a steady flow, pooling against your collar plating. Wing’s hand is still braced against your chest—right over your spark, you _don’t_ think—and his smile is unbearably gentle when he says, “There we go, Drift, go ahead—”

                Your overload shakes you from head to toe, but you’re aware enough to notice that Wing’s sword is just barely touching your throat again, and doesn’t cut you, no matter how you shake and gasp. When you finally get yourself under control again and start to bring your hand down to… you don’t know, get a hand on his spike, or roll him over and frag him into the berth, or _something_ (you may be sulking, just a little), his sword presses against your neck again, and you freeze.

                “Oh, Drift,” he says. “I didn’t tell you to move yet.” He rolls his hips down against yours, and you don’t quite manage to stifle a little noise at the back of your throat. He smiles. “Mm. Well then. I do think you and I are just getting started.”


	2. Brainstorm/Quark: Bondage (Wrist/Ankle)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/141469560321/characters-brainstorm-rating-m-words-828-kink)

                It takes some doing to get yourself face down on your berth with your hands cuffed behind your back and a vibrating toy up your valve, but let’s be real, at this point, you’ve had plenty of practice.

                It isn’t a perfect solution. Sure, by now you’ve figured out how to make nice sturdy cuffs, ones that you can tug against without them falling apart. And hey, you’ve got the facilities and tech to manufacture some _really_ quality toys, way better than the ones you can buy on the open market. But yeah, it isn’t perfect. It would be nice if the cuffs felt, you know, a little less like cuffs. More like hands. You could make them custom if you wanted, but you’re sacrificing a lot of structural integrity if you build them that way. Might be worth thinking about.

                But really, the most frustrating thing, see. Okay. Vibration is hands down, no arguments, the best possible feature to have on any sex toy ever. And if your hands are tied up, this whole thing isn’t really _workable_ without vibration pulling all of it together. But honestly, there isn’t any part of this that makes you any more painfully conscious that it’s only you, alone in your berth.

                Right! But that’s a lame thing to linger on. Vibration is awesome and it feels awesome. Let’s think about that. It’s even more awesome when your hands are tied and you’ve got to wriggle and struggle to work yourself against the toy. You can just barely _almost_ feel the vibration against your node, nnhhh. You need it so bad, and you know it’s not going to work, but you still can resist the urge to grind down against your berth, see if you can please, _please_ get some contact—

                Maybe you could, could work out the engineering for some kind of pistoning arrangement. You’d have to worry about, ugh, health and safety at that point, _lame_ , and if you get anything wrong, the consequences could be… embarrassing. And hhhah, when you get yourself distracted like that, it’s much easier to trick yourself into relaxing and just enjoying the way the toy vibrates against you. Primus, you don’t need to worry about engineering better solutions when this feels so _good_ —all you need to do now is just focus on having fun. Just don’t think about anything else, don’t think about anyone—

                Ah. Ha. Good job. You are the idiot, it is you. This was actually going decently, and you had to ruin it. Now that you’ve gone that direction, the idiot train has no brakes, you can’t stop thinking about a slim, elegant hand holding your hands behind your back, maybe, maybe _shit_ , the other hand on the back of your head, pushing you down against the berth— He’d be so gentle, but you’d never fight him, you _couldn’t_. You’ve spent way too much time imagining what his spike would look like, what it would _feel_ like, you’re already so close, and you never last long once you go down this path, _ahh_ —

                You don’t even manage to make it through the aftershocks before you start to crash. Of course. You hit the emergency release on the handcuffs. Even getting yourself to do that much is a struggle. You don’t want to do _anything._ It’s officially time to wallow in self-pity, because that's just how you roll! The toy is still vibrating in you, though, and it’s too much. Not in the way where maybe you could push through the overstimulation, turn the evening around into something better. You just take it out and turn it off. Throw it over the side of your berth. You think you hear something crack, but whatever. _Whatever._

                You turn yourself over onto your back. Because proper wallowing means staring into the middle distance of your ceiling. A ceiling is much more engaging than point-blank berth, don’t you think? You’ve got this down to an art form. You don’t even need to look while you pull the cuffs to pieces. It’s too easy. All you have to do is dig your fingers into the joins and they come right apart. If you know what you’re doing, they’re practically made of weak spots. Weak, useless, _pathetic_. You guess it’s impressive that you manage to pretend they’re good for anything for even a few minutes at a time.

                It isn’t long before the cuffs are gone and you’re covered with a pile of useless scrap. Well. That’s that, you guess. Time for plain old ceiling-staring. You’re a _pro_ though, you’ve got this. Need someone to stare at a ceiling for hours while trying to remember how to slip into recharge? You’re the mech for the job. Just have to pace yourself so you don’t get worn out halfway through and slip into staring at the _wall_ like some kind of _amateur_ or something. Marathon ceiling staring is a go. You’ve got this. You’ve got this.


	3. Megatron/Rodimus: Teasing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/141475240301/relationship-megatronrodimus-rating-m-words)

                You know Rodimus isn’t a young mech. But when you’re with him, you feel every one of your years piling onto you, until you’re nearly crushed under their weight. You’ve known plenty of Primes in your day, each worse than the last. Even Optimus. It’s so hard, sometimes, remembering what it was like before four million years of poison came between you. But you still think you’ll never completely forget.

                Rodimus lived through the same war you and Optimus did. And somehow he came through that war with that same shining idealism that was beaten out of you lifetimes ago. You’d laugh at him for that—you _have_ laughed at him for that—but some part of you wants to believe in him. Some part of you quietly hopes he’ll succeed, reach heights you never managed to reach yourself.

                These are, of course, entirely inappropriate things to be thinking when he’s laid out on your berth waiting for you, his legs spread and his fans venting hot. There is such a thing as mood, and you are ruining it. You shouldn’t be considering war and ideals and Optimus when Rodimus is reaching out to pull you in closer, saying filthy daring things that would make a less distracted mech swoon. And really, at the very least, you should have the self-control that he can’t read your unspoken thoughts right off of your face.

                You really don’t deserve him. He pivots naturally, never missing a beat. He pulls you in still, but it’s whispered teasing and encouragements now. He’s not one for backing down, not one for giving over to your self-pity and introspection. He wraps his legs around your thighs, pulling you into him. You breach him with a shudder and a gasp, him laughing at you for your reaction and urging you on further. When you try to speak, he interrupts you with messy, off-center kisses, grinning at you and wrapping his arms around your neck until you surrender and hold him to you in return.

                It’s too easy to lose yourself in him like this. When you’re here with him, you don’t want to remember the rest of the world. When he’s holding you, you feel claimed, pulled away from everything that weighs you down. You don’t have the power to free yourself, and neither does he, truly, but he makes you believe that he can do it, regardless. You’ll have to tell him that later. When he’s more likely to remember it.

                For now he’s clinging tight to your neck, his legs wrapped so hard and fast around your hips that you can’t help teasing him that he’s so desperate he’ll dent your plating. He tries to tease back, he really does, but he’s tragically incoherent with his head thrown back and his voice choked by static. Your arms are still around him, and you don’t truly want to let him go, not now or ever—another thing to tell him when he’ll remember—but you eventually force yourself to take one arm away.

                Rodimus weakly tries to protest when you pull back from him, but the moment you slip your hand between the two of you and get your thumb on his node, those protests are choked off. In fact, you think that most of what he’s trying to say now consists of ‘yes,’ ‘please,’ and ‘ _more_.’ When you shake your head and express your disappointment at his sadly limited vocabulary, he untangles one arm from around your neck just long enough to make an impressively rude gesture instead.

                After that, you fear, you’ve lost your capacity for rational thought. At least you’ve lost the ability to tease him further. You’re drowning in sensation, drowning in _Rodimus_. You’ve pressed yourself up against him as close as you can, your face buried against his neck, clutching him against your chest.

                You still move against him, but every retreat, every movement _away_ leaves you bereft until you return to him again. He knows you too well. His hand pets along the back of your helmet, a soothing gesture. You’d be insulted if it was anyone else. Doubtless he’ll tease you for that later; it is how he reacts to any display of sincere emotion. You’ll tease him in return for the way he pleads for more, the way he claws desperately along your back as you thrust into him.

                It isn’t over quickly, but you still think it is over too soon. The two of you lie against each other, still entwined, and neither of you willing to make the first move to separate. Your fans vent against each other, burning hot enough to be almost painful. But you don’t separate. Your hips ache. If Rodimus really has left you with dents, you’ll never let him live it down.

                It really would be so easy for you to make some excuse about how you're clearly the only co-captain responsible enough to remember you have other duties calling you. Or he could say something about having better things to do than laze about getting nothing done with a mech like you. Neither of you says a word. The only change you make is when the arm still pinned under Rodimus starts to ache, and you reluctantly pull back far enough to roll onto your side. Rodimus complains, but you’ve barely even settled before he moves right up against you, tangling his legs with yours and wedging himself against your chest plate. Well. He’s had his chance to leave, and you’ve had yours. You’re just an old mech with no better way to spend your time than this, so you settle down, dim your optics, put your arm around him, and prepare to happily waste the rest of your day.


	4. Froid/Rung: Gags/Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration for this comes from [Schandbringer](schandbringer.tumblr.com)/[Herzspalter's](herzspalter.tumblr.com) original hilarious [Rung/Froid comic](http://schandbringer.tumblr.com/post/129599783317/there-i-sketched-it-too-rung-and-froid-can-only), which has really stuck with me since the first time I read her blog. I recommend her whole tag for this ship, honestly, but this comic cracks me up every time I read it.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/141525755936/relationship-rung-3-froid-rating-m-words-657)

                Just because you and Froid have both gagged yourselves doesn’t mean you can’t communicate. Really, the gags were meant to solve a problem—and they have, to a certain extent. It’s been, goodness, at least a few stellar cycles since you punched him in the face (to be fair, he should have known he had it coming when he decided to question your statistical rigor in a study covering a _millennium’s_ worth of medical records). But although the gags were an effective solution to the initial difficulty—that being that when you and Froid talk, things tend to… devolve. Both of you are intelligent mechs. You’ve managed to work around it.

                And that’s why now, when you’re riding him, when he should simply be grateful to be in your berth, having the best sex he’s probably had in his entire life, he looks you up and down, scornfully, and turns his head with an insulting little tilt. Of _course_ , you’re far too mature to respond in kind. Rather you pause, raise a finger—give me a moment—and take off your glasses to polish off some imaginary speck of dust. And oh dear, when you put them on, there does seem to be a fresh, obvious smudge across the left lens. It’s worth it for the way Froid’s optics twitch.

                You don’t start moving yet. You hesitate. Was there something else you were supposed to be doing? You stroke your chin, trying to remember—overacting, yes, but the overacting in itself is a wonderful insult. And really, it isn’t any struggle at all to outlast Froid’s patience. He lurches halfway upright, bracing himself on your elbows. You pull back, imitating surprise. Why, whatever could he want? And _certainly_ it’s only coincidental that you happen to pull back far enough that his spike nearly slips from your valve.

                He grabs your hips and slams you back down. You catch the little noise he makes past the gag in his mouth. That’s a point for you—not that either of you is keeping score, except that both of you are _absolutely_ keeping score. If you’re lucky, it might have even drowned out the noise you made. From the look in his optics, you rather doubt it. He presses his momentary advantage, getting his other hand on your spike, driving up into you so hard you know you’ll be wonderfully sore tomorrow.

                You really should try to turn the tables on him, see if, if you can perhaps get a hand on his valve from here—or his vents are sensitive, you know how he’ll fall to pieces if you, if you just— But all you can do is brace yourself against his chest, grind your down against him as he thrusts into you, rocking your hips between his spike and his hand. You feel your antennae twitch, and you know Froid notices. He can’t make much of an expression past the gag, and whatever he’s trying to say is too muffled for understanding. But you know what his face looks like when he’s trying to sneer, and you can hear _tone_ —But you’re so close to overload, _too_ close, you need to—just, just a moment more— _ahh—_

                When your optics will focus again, Froid looks entirely too smug for a mech who hasn’t overloaded yet, and is putting all his effort into provoking his partner. His spike is still hard inside you, but you refuse to move, on principle. But if you quit now, he wins, doesn’t he. And if you keep going, he’ll think he’s won too. No matter what you do, he’s going to think he’s the winner, and it doesn’t even matter if he’s _wrong_ , because he’ll disagree with you, no matter what. He knows it too. And he knows that you know that he knows. Checkmate. All you can do is reach behind your head and unbuckle your gag.

                “ _You motherfucker._ ”


	5. Megatron/Ultra Magnus: Epistolary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/141533173796/relationship-ultra-magnusmegatron-rating-g)

                The moment you hand Megatron the datapad, you’re certain you’ve made a dreadful mistake. First, in handing it to anyone whatsoever. That, in and of itself, is such an oversight, that you can’t help running internal diagnostics to ensure your facilities haven’t been compromised in some fashion. Second, in handing it to _Megatron_. The unseemliness of furnishing such unprofessional, unsuitable materials to your superior officer—that alone would be bad enough. But you are acquainted with Megatron’s own accomplishments in the field, his undeniably extensive body of work. And here you are, a rank amateur, overstepping the bounds of propriety and good taste both, and handing your own poor efforts at poetry to a seasoned expert.

                You rather wish you were in your armor. Not as, as some empty, meaningless measure of security. You like to think you aren’t quite that unsound. But you’d rather be in your armor, nonetheless. Like that, perhaps you could feign clumsiness and snap the datapad in two. You doubt it would deceive Megatron, but the rules of decorum would theoretically prevent his commenting on it. As you are now, perhaps you can still invent some excuse. Maybe a forgotten meeting with Rodimus, that would surely take precedence over a informal social engagement—but it would take only one message from one officer to the other for your story to fall apart, and you don’t think you could bear the embarrassment.

                If you could go back and redo this, you would. Perhaps—perhaps not undo it entirely. Megatron is still reading. Still considering. But you would certainly show him a _different_ poem. One less—well. You would show him a different poem. You hardly know what you were thinking, taking this course of action. Common sense, propriety, the rules of command, they all should have told you better. But now he’s reading it. And despite how decidedly improper your actions have already been, your humiliation is still incomplete, for it’s only now dawning on you that you’ve put yourself in an unspeakably delicate position with a mech you’re realizing you badly want to... think well of you.

                You can’t look away from Megatron’s face. If he looks up at you now, you hardly know what you’ll do, but in this moment, you can’t stop yourself from staring. He’s still intent on the datapad, his face still and solemn. Surely he must have finished by now? For all the time you may have poured into it, what you wrote, in the end, was only a pale few pages. You won’t flatter yourself by imagining that your work has the subtleties and shades of meaning that might merit a second reading. Yet Megatron still hasn’t looked up.

                You’re in a quiet, frozen agony by the time he moves. You’re consumed by thoughts of how simple it must be to see what of yourself is in the work, how it must paint the clearest possible picture of every way in which you are lacking. You’re so distracted that you hardly notice when Megatron begins typing on the datapad.

                Once you do notice—as bad as it was watching him simply read, this is worse. He types quickly. You don’t have much time to adjust. Not that you know what to adjust _to_ , this is certainly outside the bounds of anything you might have possibly expected. But when he finally pushes the datapad back across the desk to you, he does it with a wry half-smile.

                “Forgive my meter,” is the first thing he says. You scroll down through lines of unfamiliar text, still not comprehending. “It’s been quite some time and my memory isn’t perfect. But your work reminded me of something I once wrote, and I thought you might appreciate it.”

                You’re still slow to understand—but it’s a dizzying rush of relief when you do. You scroll back to the beginning of Megatron’s writing and begin again. As you try to focus on the datapad, you’re conscious of Megatron watching you the same way you watched him. He’s rather more at ease than you, of course. But he watches you with the same sort of tense anticipation, his fingers laced in front of him on the desk, his optics intent on you. You indulge in a brief moment to still your spark and center yourself, then you look down at your datapad, and begin to read.


	6. Fortress Maximus/Rung: Danger

          The panic starts to set in as soon as you cross your wrists behind your back. Not the most promising start. Rung keeps up a steady stream of commentary as he cuffs you. Trying to remind you of where you are, perhaps. 

          "These restraints should be up to the job, I think. They're remarkably overbuilt, and it really is fascinating hearing about the design process. They should be able to hold— should be able to hold any mech alive, as far as I've been told." 

          Should be able to hold a phase sixer, is what he means. Should be able to hold Overlord. You appreciate that he'd try to spare you, even if the contrast between that gesture and what you've asked him to do is ridiculous enough that you don't know whether you want to laugh or scream. 

          It's easier when he walks around in front of you again. It's easier when you can see him, standing there, watching you with kind eyes. He's holding the blindfold. Even kneeling like this, you're still taller than he is, but you tug at the cuffs and there's no give to them, and you stare at the blindfold and imagine yourself with no optics, listening to slow footsteps, helpless, only able to wait for whatever comes next—

          You manage to choke out, "I have guns in my legs—" 

          Rung smiles more sweetly than you deserve and puts a soft hand on your cheek. You fight the urge to lean into that contact, and fail. 

          "You don't want to hurt me," he says. "That's very kind of you. Max, I'm going to cuff your ankles before we go any further. Nod if you understand." 

          You don't think you could manage speech right now, but you nod for him. 

          He takes his hand from your cheek and walks around behind you again. You do your best to remain calm. You dim your optics and hold the image of him to you, small and slender and gentle. But as soon as the cuffs click shut, your fans spin up panic-fast, you can't stop yourself from testing the restraints again and again, and each time they're unyielding and firm, but you need to break free, you need to _run_ —

          Rung comes around in front of you again. You hold his optics with yours. You don't think you could bring yourself to look away. You don't know whether you want to beg him to let you go or beg him to please, _please don't stop_. Your valve is dripping already, even past your closed panel. What is _wrong_ with you? Rung is still holding the blindfold. He touches your cheek again, unbearably gentle, before he ties the blindfold around your head. 

          You manage to hold yourself frozen for a few long moments. Rung is saying something, but it won't resolve into words, you don't know what he's trying to tell you. You're going to shatter. Any second now you'll lose the last shreds of your self-control and fall into pieces, you're going to break apart—

          You can't choke back the helpless little noise you make when you feel his hand on your panel. It springs open under his fingers, and that, yes, focus on that sensation, focus on the tone of his voice, even if you still can't understand the words. He's touching you so slow and careful you can hardly stand it, so soft that you're almost afraid it'll kill you. 

          That fragile balance lasts until he puts his other hand on your waist. That's— he wants leverage, what is he going to do to you, _what is he going to do?_ You lurch sideways, yanking against the cuffs, but it does you no good. You pull as hard as you can, straining against them, but you're only left lying on your side, helpless and blind, as slow, measured footsteps approach you. 

          You— You need to get away, something, _anything_ — When you try to transform, you know it won't work, but you can't help doing it anyways. Your wrists and ankles catch against the cuffs, but just a little more, _just a little further_ —

Something in your shoulder wrenches loose just as Overlord— as _Rung_ bends down and removes your blindfold. Your head is spinning. You need to run, you're _trapped_ , you're safe, this is the only place you're safe— 

          Rung holds your face steady, forcing you to meet his optics. "Max. _Max_. We're done, that's enough. You did so well, but that's enough—" 

          When he tries to reach for the cuffs, you jerk away. " _Don't_ ," you grit out. "Not safe." 

          He doesn't fight you, thank Primus. You wouldn't be able to live with yourself if you hurt him now. He just holds you close, stroking your face, your finials, little soothing touches to distract you from yourself. You're almost grateful for the cuffs. If your hands were free now, you wouldn't be able to control yourself, you'd clutch him to you and you'd shatter into pieces, there's nothing holding you together right now except the cuffs and Rung. He rests his forehead against yours and runs his fingers over and over your cheeks until finally you let yourself dim your optics and simply lean into him and try to relax. 


	7. Getaway/Tailgate: Emotion Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for (nonsexual) emotional manipulation in this story
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/141585313421/relationship-getawaytailgate-rating-pg-words)

                You’re a little lost. Maybe a lot. You think that’s allowed—it isn’t every day that someone proposes to you. Or any day? You can’t speak for anyone else, but you think—that is, you _assume_ that this isn’t something that everyone is dealing with all the time. You think. Unless you’ve missed something big. That does happen sometimes, but you really, really hope you would have noticed if everyone else was carrying out the four acts all over the place and you were the only mech who didn’t have a clue.

                Getaway is being so patient, though. You’re doing your best, but you’re still reeling. You! Someone’s conjunx endura! It just doesn’t seem like the kind of thing that happens to—to mechs like you. He’s been so kind. You wonder if maybe he’s tried before. You can’t quite remember any time before this, but your head is still spinning, and it isn’t even like you had any idea of what was going on _this_ time before he was good enough to explain it to you.

                Chirolinguistics, Corcapsia, and your new needles. All of that, just for you, even though he _must_ have realized you were too clueless to even understand what was happening right in front of your face. And now, all you have to do is fix Megatron. How could you say no, after all that? He _loves_ you.

                Even though you’ve, you’ve agreed to go through with it—you can do it, you _have_ to—you’re still sitting here trying to pull yourself together. Heh. Gather your courage. You’re sure this ship is packed full of ‘bots who’d be able to do this much better than you, but Getaway trusts you, and you aren’t going to let him down. Not after—not after everything. All of, you know. This.

                But he’s being so good to you. You’re still sitting in his hab suite, staring at your new needles like an idiot, and he just holds your hand and patiently watches you. Holding your hand isn’t quite right. He’s playing with your fingers, tilting them back and forth, lacing his fingers with yours. You wish you spoke enough hand to know if he was saying anything. You wish you spoke any hand at all. It would come in handy for, you know, those awkward moments when you really, really ought to say something, but you’re so frozen you don’t even remember how to talk. That kind of thing.

                When his grip shifts and you feel the way his fingers press against your palm—you _know_ that means something. It only takes you a couple tries to force your vocal processor into a laugh, and you manage, “Translation?”

                Getaway jumps, drops your hand. He ducks his head, and then slowly reaches out to take your hand in his again. “Oh no, I couldn’t. I—no, no, I couldn’t. It’s too embarrassing.”

                Ohh. You give his hand a comforting squeeze. “Promise I won’t laugh.”

                He meets your optics for a moment, then looks away again, covering his face with his free hand. “No, really, I just—” He gives you a shy glance before ducking away again. “I’ve never felt this way before. About anyone.”

                You’re the one who looks away now. You bend your head, studying the way your hands fit together. From the way he slowly curls his fingers around yours, you hope—you _think_ that maybe he’s just as overwhelmed as you are. His hand presses against yours again, the same pattern as before. “One of these days,” you say, “You’ll actually teach me chirolinguistics, and then I’ll know all of your secrets."

                He laughs and turns back to you, catching your other hand in his. Like this, there’s hardly any space between you. You can’t look away from your joined hands. The needles make it a little awkward, but they’re a present. From _Getaway_. And they’re the only way for you to fix Megatron. You _promised_.

                You take a half step backward, but you can’t quite bring yourself to drop his hands. “I’ll be back soon. Wait for me?”

                "I'll be right here, promise." He hesitates for a long moment before he looks up at you and slowly, reluctantly, lets your hands go. Before you turn to leave, the last thing he says to you is, “Oh, Tailgate. I just know you’re going to make me so happy.”


	8. Megatron/Rodimus: Worship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/141590848336/relationship-megatronrodimus-rating-e-words)

                You have a number of duties that ought to be occupying your time as an officer on this ship. More duties than you care to remember. Instead, you’re wasting your free time trying to get your mouth on Rodimus’s spike. Rodimus, being Rodimus, is wasting _his_ free time making that as difficult as possible.

                Which isn’t to say that he’s giving you mixed signals. Certainly not. There’s a steady stream of words filling the silence between you two, and well. Your mouth is occupied. You don’t like to think for too long on how vocal he is in his appreciation of you, his lack of filter he has between what he thinks and what he says, how appallingly transparent he is even when he thinks he’s being sly—you don’t like to think on it. And you rather doubt that you’re even capable of reciprocating in kind. As trite as it may be, you do your best to express yourself through your actions instead.

                Of course, that would be significantly easier if Rodimus would only _cooperate_. You have him laid out on his berth, his legs spread for you to kneel between them. You have one hand on his hips, holding him steady. Your other hand is between your own legs. It would take a stronger mech than you to resist when he’s here, like this, for _you_ , looking so beautiful.

                This would be a lovely moment, if he would only let you have it. But just as you bend forward to swallow him deep, he struggles up to prop himself on an elbow, shoves weakly at your shoulder, and—again—interrupts his own demands for _more_ with, “—wait, stop, I can’t _see_ —”

                You don’t pay him much heed. He can see everything there _is_ to see. He can see your lips wrapping around his spike, he can see his transfluid spill down your chin as you move against him. He can see your face as you look up at him, watching to be sure you don’t miss a single moment of his reaction as you take him in. Your valve aches with how badly you need him. You take your own spike in hand as you watch him. You don’t have a doubt that you could bring yourself to overload from his expression alone, but no, not yet. Rodimus first.

                Well, he would be first if he’d only let you pleasure him. He’s shoving at your shoulder again, struggles further upright and pushes at your helmet. You don’t drop your optics from his as his spike slips from between your lips. He makes the most lovely, desperate noise at that. Slowly, waiting for him to tell you no, you lower your mouth to him again. He watches, transfixed, as you take him into your mouth again.

                When he tries to speak, you pause. Hold his optics with yours. He has to try twice to speak past the static, but manages, “ _Hold on_ , I want to see, you aren’t—you’re in the way—”

                You make a questioning noise around his spike. He shudders at the sensation, clutching your head to him and arching up against your mouth.

                It takes him a few moments to regain control of himself, but then he’s pushing you away again, doggedly repeating, “No, I can’t—Come on, Megs, _Megatron_ , just let me _see_ —”

                You sigh, but let him reposition you as he wants. He moves you up and away, and really, you don’t know how he expects you to get your mouth on him from here—But his optics have dropped from yours, down to where you’re still holding your spike.

                His voice is quiet when he says, “Yeah. Just like that?” Despite yourself, you’re taken aback. You’re certain you must be mistaken. But when you stroke yourself, he makes a pleased little noise and asks, “Your valve too?”

                You... have to let go of him for that. You do so, reluctantly, but the sound he makes when you slide two fingers into yourself makes it more than worthwhile. You sit back on your heels—only for comfort, of course, not out of any vain fantasy of giving Rodimus a better angle. Clearly.

                He watches with his mouth hanging open, and you are entirely too gratified when he whispers, “ _Primus_ ,” and reaches down to take his own spike in hand.

                You only hold yourself back from overload by the barest thread of self-control. _Rodimus first_. He’s playing with his valve now too, running teasing fingers around the edges of his entrance without ever slipping them inside. You’ll need to try that. It’s so hard to tell him no when he begs you for anything, but you’ll do it if that’s what he likes best. You drop your hand from your spike with some vague intention of touching him, holding him, _something_ , but when he gasps, “ _Please don’t stop_ ,” it so happens you don’t have it in you to deny him after all.

                He laughs at that, his voice half choked by static, and kicks at the side of your thigh as well as he can with his legs still spread around yours. “What are you waiting for, just overload already.”

                You could. You really could. He was lovely before, but now he defies description. You’re transfixed. You couldn’t look away from him if your life depended on it. It takes all the willpower you have to drag yourself back from the edge, but you are bound and determined that it will be _Rodimus first_.

                You have to admit that some small part of you is ashamed of the self-control that means you have to consciously force yourself to relax enough to smile. But the smile itself is entirely genuine. Rodimus meets your gaze for an unending moment, before he arches, twisting on the berth, shaking as his overload takes him.

                He laughs with unabashed joy while the aftershocks rock through him, and you’re left watching him, open-mouthed and awestruck, only able to helplessly wonder how you’re so fortunate as to have him in your life. He reaches out with a still-unsteady hand and wraps it around yours, where you’re still holding your spike. “Come on, I said _overload_ _already._ ”

                That’s all it takes. You’re helpless to resist him. He pulls you down against his chestplate, butting his helmet up against yours. You gasp his name as your overload sweeps through you, and he just laughs again, holding you close while your fans pour off heat and you shake against him. And when it’s done, when it’s over and you’re left hollowed out and empty and swept clean, you whisper his name again, softer and lower.

                Rodimus smiles. He resettles his arms around you, holding you close, and only says, “I know.”


	9. Dominus Ambus/Rewind: Food (Energon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/141681424181/relationship-dominus-ambusrewind-rating-m)

                It takes a while for Dom to top you off with energon. Plenty of down time, nothing to do but lie around together—as long as you don’t jostle the cable ports too badly. So there’s plenty of wiggle room for you to roll over, straddle his waist, and brace yourself against his shoulders.

                “Pinned you.”

                He smiles at you—he looks so nice when he’s solemn and focused and serious, but you can’t get enough of him smiling, so you tuck that video clip away into a special directory—and brings his hands up to rest on your hips. “I find myself quite helpless.”

                That’s an interesting way to put it. Is he helpless because you’ve pinned him or helpless because it’s _you_? Definitely not because you’ve pinned him. Even if he’s not _that_ tall, you’re still you. You could probably find some clean, pretty way to say that, but… you don’t feel like dancing around with abstractions and shades of meaning today, not now, with him here and warm between your legs.

                So you just rest your hand against his open chest, right over his exposed spark casing, and say, “You’re mine.”

                When you’re this close, you can feel his fans spin up, just a touch, just enough you could almost think you’d imagined it. His thumb strokes over and over your side where he’s holding you. The morning light coming through the window brings out the warm tones in his helmet, and the gold reflects across his cheeks. There isn’t a force on Cybertron that could persuade you to stop recording right now.

                Dom says, “In the spirit of reciprocity, should I assume that makes you mine as well? Otherwise I fear I may have been operating under an unfortunate misunderstanding for the last several hundred vorns—”

                You can’t help laughing. “Come on, Dom, don’t make this awkward.”’

                He lets go of one hip to pull you down gently, only long enough to press a kiss to your faceplate before he lets you sit up again. His hand comes to rest on your leg, and you can feel each finger as a separate, distracting point of contact.

                “But then,” he muses, “If you own me and I own you, wouldn’t ownership of myself simply revert back to me?”

                “No,” you declare. “Because you’re mine.”

                He laughs. You’ve never been so grateful for your camera. “It’s only logic, Rewind.”

                “Then I own you again after that—because you already agreed you’re mine, remember?” A dramatic pause. “It’s only _logic_ , Dom.”

                He props himself up on one elbow to kiss you again. Your hand is still on his spark chamber, his is still on your thigh. He can’t hold you against him properly, not like his, with the cable still joining your chests. You’re topped off already, to be honest. But even if it doesn’t _mean_ anything, not really, you still don’t want to break that connection.

                Dom doesn’t either. No, he’d rather spend his time trying to be clever. “Then I am sorry to say that consistently applying that same logic would result in my ownership again reverting back to me—”

                You make a rude noise, one that almost manages to hide the way you’re laughing. “Don’t be silly! You’re mine first, so no matter how many times we trade it, I either own you as many times as you own yourself, or I own you more.” The way he smiles at you is almost too much. You don’t know whether you want to look away or whether you want to rewatch this recording every day for the rest of your life. Also, you can feel his hand creeping up your leg when he thinks you aren’t paying attention. “On average, you’re mine. The math doesn’t lie. Also, I can _feel_ that, Dom, you aren’t being sneaky—”

                He just shrugs and laughs, entirely shameless. You could just melt with how much you’re feeling for him right now. He says, “I can always stop if you want me to.”

                “…I didn’t say _that_.”

                Your panel opens at the first brush of his fingertips, and your spike extends against his stomach. You can feel the way his fans spin faster, and you can hear his panel spring open behind you. Dom gets a hand under you, his fingers sliding against your valve and the heel of his hand pressing against your spike. There are probably easier ways to do this, but you’d have to move away from him, so… nope.

                The angle isn’t the best, but you can just about manage to reach back and get a hand on his valve. Your shoulder’s going to hurt if this takes too long, but when you hear the noises Dom makes when you touch him, you can’t bring yourself to care about your shoulder at all. And you don’t think this will take long. It definitely won’t for you. You can’t look away from Dom’s optics while you rock against him. You’re backing the recording up in three separate directories in your neocortex and remotely uploading a backup copy to your computer system, just to be safe, you never want to forget this, you never want to forget the way he’s holding you and looking at you and the expression on his face and the way he whispers your name—

                When you overload, all you want to do is curl forward against him and cling to his shoulders—but no, Dom isn’t done yet, you’re not going to leave him like this now, not going to leave him _ever._ You can feel his transfluid spill over your fingers as he overloads, arching off the floor, his hands tight around your waist.

                Both of you sit there like that for a long moment, your fans pouring off heat against each other. You’re the first one to reluctantly move away. You pinned him first, so you _suppose_ he’s earned a de-pinning now. And you should probably disconnect the cable. You were topped off ages ago, you’ve indulged yourself for long enough, time to let it go.

                But when you reach up for your port, Dom catches your hand. “We did just finish exerting ourselves. Perhaps just a little longer?”

                That’s not how it works, and you both know it. And that’s being really generous with the definition of ‘exert’. But it’s not like you’re going to argue. You let the cable be and just move down to lay beside Dom. He doesn’t let go of your hand. From this angle, you can’t get your camera on his face, can’t record much of anything except some ceiling and a hint of chestplate. But you can feel his hand on yours, you can hear the quiet hum of his motors next to you. Neither of you says anything, but really, you don’t think you need to. You wrap your fingers a little more tightly around his, and that’s enough. The morning sun still fills the room to overflowing with warm, golden light, and two of you lie in peace, together.


	10. Chromedome/Rewind: Exhibitionism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have too many emotions about the different dynamics between Dominus Ambus and Rewind versus Chromedome and Rewind to go into them here, but I am _loving_ exploring the contrast in these two relationships. It's definitely something I want to play with more in the future.
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/141701511081/relationship-chromedomerewind-rating-strong-t)

                Rewind is holding your hand while you sit in Swerve’s together, sipping your drinks. That isn’t anything unusual. What is unusual is that under the table, he’s talking to you. He has your hand in his, and one-handed chirolinguistics might not be as nuanced as two-handed, but he’s certainly getting his point across.

                You interrupt him with, < _Someone’s going to see us, you know._ >

                The bar isn’t crowded, but it isn’t empty either. Plenty of people on the ship know how to speak hand, and it all it would take to catch what he’s saying is a casual glance at the right time.

                Rewind looks up at you. < _Does that bother you? Want me to stop?_ >

                < _I didn’t say that. I’m just letting you know._ >

                < _Good_ , > he says. Pauses. < _Well, now I forget what I was talking about_.  >

                You smile a little to yourself. < _I guess you’ll have to start over._ >

                He laughs, bumps his elbow into your side. < _Fine, then. Let’s start over with how you’re mine, all mine, forever._ >

                < _Yes,_ > you agree.

                He stumbles there, looks sharply up at you. He squeezes your hand in his for a moment, no words, just holding your hand tight against his leg and leaning into your side before he straightens. He ventures, < _All of you? Every last piece of you? Everything?_ >

                You don’t even have to think about it. It isn’t even a question. < _Every last piece of me. Everything I have that I could possibly give to you._ >

                < _You haven’t thought that through. There must be something you’d say no to._ >

                < _Everything._ >

                He puts his drink down for a moment, leans over against your side again. He turns his head into your chestplate, rests his hand over your spark. He doesn’t let go of your hand under the table.

                He does sit back up when Swerve pulls out a chair across the table and sits down with a sigh and a grin. “Aw, look at the two lovebirds—human idiom, it’s sweet, promise. You wouldn’t believe the things they do with their figurative language, great stuff.”

                Rewind says, “Hi, Swerve,” out loud, but under the table, he’s saying, < _I bet you’d tell me no if I said I told you I was going to interface with you right here, right on this table, in the middle of the bar._ > “Not bartending?”

                Swerve nods over towards the bar. “Bluestreak is covering me for a few minutes. These long shifts, sometimes you just need to get off your feet, you know? Plus you spend too much time working, you forget to stop and smell the flowers—another human idiom, don’t worry about it.”

                You ask Rewind, < _Right where everyone can see?_ > “The bar does certainly keep you busy.”

                < _So that’s a no_ , > Rewind challenges.

                < _I didn’t say that._ > To Swerve, you add, “I hope you’re enjoying the work.”

                He grins again and stretches until you hear his shoulders pop. “Oh yeah, definitely. Its been my dream for oh, a couple million years, you know? Add in one genuine epic quest and a crew like this, that’s about as good as it could possibly get.”

                Rewind says, < _You’d let me do it. You’d let me lay you out, right here, right now. Completely exposed, and every mech on the ship would see you like that. Every one of them would know that you’re all mine, forever, no matter what._ >

                < _Whatever you want from me, I’ll give it to you. Anything_.  >

                “And it’s a great bar to set up shop in,” Rewind says. “Very well built. Sturdy tables.”

                You just about choke on your engex.

                Rewind turns to you, all concern. “You okay up there?” You can’t resist the urge to kick him under the table, but he’s already turned back to Swerve. “Like I said, great place. Any plans for the future?”

                Well. It should be a while before anyone else can get a word in edgewise. Rewind’s already talking to you again.

                < _I’m not thinking about this from the right angle. That wouldn’t be something you’d **refuse** to do. I think you’d like it, right? It isn’t a problem that everyone would see. You’d love it if everyone saw you like that, wouldn’t you? You want everyone to know just how much you belong to me. Tell me if I’m right. Tell me. _ >

                You feel your fans spin up—perhaps nobody noticed, in the noise of the bar, but you know Rewind felt it. < … _You’re right_.  >

                You can practically feel the smugness radiating off of him. And his fans. You can feel those too. Neither of you talks for a moment. You just lean into each other, holding hands. You laugh at a joke from Swerve, but almost all your attention is on Rewind, tucked up against your side.

                Finally, he says, < _If you don’t want me to actually interface with you in the middle of the bar, we should probably go back to our hab suite_.  >

                You pretend to think about it, look thoughtfully around until Rewind kicks _you_ under the table.

                All innocent, you say, < _I’m getting mixed messages here._ >

                It’s his turn to choke on his engex. He doesn’t get a chance to answer before you pull your hand free to hold your drink. It isn’t just about getting the last word either, your hands have gotten a little shaky—and you think you know just who’s to blame for that. He shoots a glare at you, but you know what he looks like when he’s trying not to laugh. He leaves his hand under the table, resting it on your leg and rubbing distracting circles into your thigh as Swerve talks.

                You don’t have to wait long before Bluestreak calls Swerve back over to the bar and he says his goodbyes. It’s good, you don’t know how long you can hold out before _someone_ hears how fast your fans are running. You still aren’t sure whether you want everyone on the whole ship to know, or whether you just want to slip away with Rewind, with everybody none the wiser.

                Rewind decides it for you. He pushes back from the table and stands, and you follow him. He takes your hand again, not saying anything, just quietly watching you. When he turns to leave the bar, you’re right there beside him, your hand still in his. He doesn’t let go as you walk out of the bar, as you walk down the halls, not even once you’re back alone in your hab suite.

                When he finally drops your hand, it’s only so he can reach up and tug you down so your face is level with his. You go to your knees in front of him. He cups your cheeks in his hands. Rests his helmet against yours and looks deep into your optics for a long moment. When he shakes himself and takes a step back, you stay where you are, watching him.

                Rewind rests a hand on your chest, right over your spark, and says brightly, “Now, Domey. How about we learn together how many fuses a mech can blow in a single overload?”


	11. Cyclonus/Tailgate: Technological

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for the aftermath of emotional manipulation (also, you can consider this a sequel to [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6320311/chapters/14523382) story if you want to)

                It’s… hard. After Getaway. You just want things to go back to normal. More than _anything_ , you just want things to go back to normal. And you aren’t bad at pretending things are okay! You can get drinks with Chromedome and Rewind, or you can hang out with Ten, or, or all kinds of things, you can do that just fine. It’s just. You know. Hard.

                It’s _exhausting_ is what it is, you can go to Swerve’s okay, or movie night, but then you spend all your time wondering whether anyone actually wants you there, or whether you’re just being as stupid as you were before, and all you want to do is go back to your hab suite, but you’re stuck there with people for ages and ages and ages and everything is exhausting and terrible. You _believed_ Getaway when he said he loved you. So you’ll go places, if people invite you. But you don’t go out yourself, and you’re getting really good at finding excuses to just stay in your hab suite. Alone.

                You think Cyclonus notices. He _has_ to notice. And more than anything else, you want to ask him about… you know. _Everything_. No matter how pathetic it makes you look. But you haven’t said a word. You haven’t even asked him about the innermost energon he left for you—you still have it, hidden in a box under your recharge slab. You don’t know what you’re supposed to do with these things, but. You want to keep it. And at the same time, you _don’t_ want to ask Cyclonus about anything, you’d rather ask anyone else on the ship. He already must think so poorly of you, so no. You’re not going to set yourself to watch him be even more disappointed in you, thanks.

                If you had your way, you could happily dodge the topic for, oh, a couple hundred cycles or so. But if you’re reading him right—though Primus knows you shouldn’t count on your ability to read anyone right about anything _ever—_ you think that Cyclonus wants to talk to _you_. ‘Simple-minded coward’ fits right in on the list of words that describe you, because you avoid that conversation for as long as you possibly can. It isn’t like Cyclonus has been talking to you much for a while anyways. You kind of really want to believe that everything Getaway ever told you was a lie, but… why would he bother lying about Cyclonus? And how else would Getaway have known about when you were dying and Cyclonus said how you—All that. All of that.

                But it’s a little hard to avoid someone forever when you’re, you know. Living with them. You even consider asking Ultra Magnus if you can switch quarters. But then people will ask why, and you’ll have to _move_ and this is your _home_ , and that would all depend on you being able to drag yourself out of your hab suite to go ask him in the first place. So that isn’t happening. And eventually Cyclonus catches you home alone, when you aren’t pretending to be in recharge, and at that point there’s no dodging it.

                He’s blunt. “How can I help?”

                You don’t know how to answer him. What are you supposed to say to something like that? What does he even expect from you? You can’t even begin figuring out how to reply, and just end up staring blankly at him until the silence is so bad you think you might explode.

                He looks away. _Finally_. But he doesn’t let it go. “I am aware I do not know the full extent of what happened between you and Getaway. And I am aware that I am not entitled to that knowledge. But I sincerely hope that you know, whatever passed, I can’t imagine that the actions _he_ took would in any way affect my opinion of you.”

                Yeah, well, he can’t imagine it because you’re just that unimaginably stupid, that’s why. It’s easier to think when he’s staring out the window, but you still aren’t catching up properly with the conversation. You’re so totally useless you can’t even decide whether you want him to leave forever or whether you want to tell him everything.

                Okay, no, not quite true. You _want_ to tell him everything, you’ve been wanting that from the moment it happened, you’ve been wanting that for cycles and cycles, ever since Getaway said— But no matter how little Cyclonus already thinks of you, it can definitely get worse. So you manage a bright, “It’s fine!” Wow, that sounds fake, but you can’t even bring yourself to care. You just lie down on your recharge slab and get ready to spend the rest of the day pretending to be asleep again.

                Cyclonus sits down on his slab, watching you. If you just turn on your slab and turn off your optics that’ll be it, end of conversation. You don’t do it. Cyclonus is still watching.

                Finally, he says, “If there is any way—any way whatsoever—that I can convince you of my intentions, I’ll do it.”

                When you look sharply over at him, he has his hand over his data port. You’re shocked enough that you can’t help bursting out with, “You don’t _mean_ that—” And… he hesitates. You add, more bitterly, “Told you so.”

                He doesn’t move his hand from his port. You should really look away, you should just _give up_ already, you need to get a clue and move on—You can’t. You can’t stop watching him, and he’s watching you too, and the silence goes on _forever_ until he says, “I have to—I need to be certain that my own wishes, my own desires, that I am not forcing them to take precedence over what you _need_.”

                And you’re still way too slow on the uptake. You have to run those words through your head a couple times before you believe you’re actually hearing them. And then the trick is fumbling your own data port open before you convince yourself that you’re imagining this whole thing.

                You don’t quite manage to clip your cable to his on your first try, your hands aren’t steady enough. Cyclonus puts his free hand over yours, steadies you. He pauses, looks at you, says, “You don’t have to let me in, if you’d rather not. You can block me out entirely if that would make you most comfortable.”

                You laugh. Do you sound nervous? You probably sound nervous. “So, yeah, I never learned how to do that.” _Well_ , no need to linger on how you’ve never done this before, how embarrassingly inexperienced you are, nope nope, none of that. You clip your cable to his before you can talk yourself out of it, and well. That’s that.

                Once the data transfer starts happening, it’s hard to remember that there’s even a world outside of it anymore, that there’s any Lost Light for you and Cyclonus to go back to. It’s, heh, not like you have much of a memory for him to be looking through. Even if you knew how to block him out, you’ve only got three solar cycles total in your memory banks. But Cyclonus—When you manage to narrow your focus to something narrow enough to process, it’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before. It’s dark and _big_ , it goes on forever in time and distance and you can see all your oldest friends, all your crewmates, falling apart in mind and body until the emptiness comes crawling up around your spark—

                Cyclonus shuts you out of those directories almost gently. You want to know more, but part of you wishes you could go back to only remembering the stories you’ve heard from other people on the ship. But even without that, there’s so _much_ , so much for you to see and remember with him, expanses of shining city stretching beneath you as you fly overhead, streets bustling with Cybertronians in more shapes and sizes than you knew existed. It’s blurred and flat at the edges of your vision, not very clear at all—you think that means it’s old? And at the same time, Cyclonus is in your memories of the little you saw before you were hurt. You wish you’d been more adventurous, that you could have seen more of _everything_. You’re remembering it all, just the plain, everyday way it happened, with its plain, everyday emotions, but you can feel Cyclonus watching it with you, and you badly wish you had more to give him.

                But at the same time, he’s carefully shutting you out of that part of his memories too. There are alien planets you barely get to see, a changed landscape beneath you that you can barely recognize as the new, broken Cybertron, expanses of space with constellations you’ve never seen before—all gone before you’ve even had time to understand what you’re seeing. You could just scream, if you remembered how your body worked. Why did he even do this if he wasn’t going to let you see anything? You must have misunderstood something _again_ , you don’t know why you’re even surprised. You don’t know what you expected, and you don’t know what he wants from you, but clearly you don’t know how to learn from your mistakes, so that makes you twice the idiot you were before.

                He blocks you out of directory after directory, but before you can figure out how to get back into your body and disconnect, he stops. Everything you can see how is… here. The Lost Light. You see, well, yourself. From above, punching, um, your arm. And you’re seething with frustration and anger that you haven’t let yourself express, but this is too much, he’s speaking to you like this when he doesn’t _understand—_ and you send him flying. He’s curled up now, apologizing, and he’s so small, and you still kick him _,_ vicious and unrepentant, before you walk away. You can feel Cyclonus wince, but he doesn’t shut you out of that memory.

                It’s disorienting, feeling him in your memories of the Lost Light at the same time that you’re in his. You’re seeing him from your side and watching yourself from his side, all at different points in time, and all out of order. It’s probably obvious how inexperienced you are. You wish you knew how to shut off bits of the transfer the way Cyclonus can, because you’re pretty sure he can tell exactly how embarrassed you are right now. You see yourself lying on a slab in the medbay, with a fresh patch across your chest. You’re holding his hand, and his fingers are still weak, but stronger than they were before, they’re _stronger_ , and the doctors are nearly certain the cure will take, and you’re overwhelmingly, pathetically grateful. If the medicine is there, he’s strong enough to push through, you know he is.

                He doesn’t block you out, but he nudges you into a different memory. Yourself again, still on a medbay slab, your chest fixed. You’re talking quietly to him about Cybertron, the Cybertron you knew. You’re telling him about the great poets and artists who were lost to the war, the beauty of their works that disappeared in the destruction. He wants you to sing, but… not here. You promise to teach him old Cybertronian instead. Another memory, you’re watching yourself watch a human film. Your optics aren’t on the screen, you’re watching him laugh and talk with Rewind as the film plays. Another, you watch yourself take the stage with Rodimus, preparing to take the Rite of Autobrand.

                You’re jerked out of watching him watch you when he stumbles into your memories of Getaway. You… don’t think you mind, honestly. Everyone already knew you were an idiot, this is just some extra detail about what _kind_ of idiot you are. You watch him clip the needles onto your fingers and listen to his explanation about why you need to fix Megatron. You can feel the same confusion and obligation that you did when it happened, right next to the humiliation and shame that you _believed_ him that you’ve felt every time you’ve replayed the conversation in your head since then. Oh, and now Cyclonus gets to watch you tell Getaway how scared you are. That’s great. Well, it isn’t like it really matters that much. Simple-minded coward, remember?

                That thought gets you a wordless push from Cyclonus that feels like _question_ , and whoops, you go slipping off sideways into you with Getaway in “Visages.” Is that how you steer this? Is that how Cyclonus has been changing memories? You can’t figure out how to do it again, but if this is the conversation you think it is, you’d _really rather not—_

                When Getaway gets to ‘embarrassing,’ ‘simple-minded,’ and ‘coward,’ all you’re feeling from Cyclonus is stunned silence. And he talks about when you were dying, yes, okay, you’d _really_ like to skip this right now, you know what’s coming, you already remember this better than you wish you did— But when Getaway says that Cyclonus said you’ve disappointed him, you get a burst from Cyclonus of disbelief and sharp denial.

                The memory is still playing on your end, but on _his_ end, he nudges you down through a series of memories—Swerve’s, your hab suite, Luna 1—It’s all going too fast for you to take much in, but finally he settles on one. You’re staring out your window, watching the stars. You ignore the approaching engine you can hear in the hallway at first, but no, you recognize who that is—You don’t make any move to stop him when he launches himself at your back. Overt displays of emotion do… not come naturally to you. But you don’t make a move to stop him as he laughs and hangs from your shoulders, and you are, yourself, quietly, fiercely proud of him.

                Cyclonus is the one to disconnect your cables. You’re still reeling and trying to remember how bodies work when he tucks your cable back into your chest and shuts it away. Even once you’ve gotten yourself oriented again, you don’t know what you’re supposed to _do_. What do people do at times like this? You don’t have a clue, especially after—after _that_. Neither of you is looking each other in the optics. You’re frozen, and if he’s expecting you to react or say something or _anything_ , he’s probably going to be waiting a long time.

                He does eventually make the first move. He reaches across the space between you, and slowly, carefully, takes one of your hands in his. You can’t look away from the way his fingers curl around yours, and you have to wonder if your spark is about to literally burst out of your chest. Even with that, even knowing that, that _—_ just. _Knowing_. It still takes you a moment to nerve yourself into acting. But you do it. You _have_ to do it, you couldn’t live with yourself if you missed this opportunity. You reach over and take his other hand in yours. Your hands are locked tight together and you still can hardly believe it, you don’t want to look away. But tear your optics from them, because you have to know, you have to _see_ —you look up at Cyclonus, and he’s looking down at you, and you’re just in time to see his mouth curl into a faint, soft smile.


	12. Cyclonus/Tailgate/Whirl: Rough Body Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for blood in this story
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/141882142836/relationship-cyclonus-3-tailgate-3-whirl-rating)

                It feels... good to fight again. Peace may be a noble ideal to strive for, but it is as foreign to you as it is to the rest of your crewmates—excepting Tailgate, of course. He looks on, perched to his side on his berth, as you and Whirl circle each other. And although simple sparring may be a pale substitute for true battle, there is something to be said for not having to worry about the consequences of death or injury, simply being able to fight for the sake of fighting. There is more to be said for how you can already hear Whirl’s fans running, or the eager way Tailgate watches the two of you, with his hand already between his legs.

                That is flattering. And certainly distracting. But you do your best to focus as you close with Whirl; sparring or not, this isn’t the time to lose your focus. There aren’t many mechs who you would trust enough for this. You still have to wonder what has happened to your better judgment that you’re doing this with _Whirl_ —but he’ll control himself. If not for your sake, for Tailgate’s. You suppose the same thing can be said about you.

                Whirl deflects your first blow off his arm, and he’s fast, slipping inside your guard before you have a chance to recover. He aims for your face, and you mostly manage to duck, but his claw still clips your wing. You grit your teeth and push through the pain, grabbing his arms and forcing him down and away. He might have a slim advantage in height, but you have it in weight.  You’d be embarrassed by how hot your fans are venting, except that you can feel him likewise affected against you.

                He resists your push for a moment, then surrenders completely, letting himself fall to the floor. You stumble, off-balance, while he laughs and kicks up at you. You catch a painful blow to the stomach, block more with your arms, and then you have him, he’s _pinned_ , helpless—And even over the noise of his struggle, you can hear his panel spring open.

                You’re at least as eager as Whirl, but you’re glad when he doesn’t stop fighting. He goes for your face, gets a painful claw in one of your vents, and you close with him tight enough that he doesn’t have the space to get his claws between you. He’s still for a bare moment, your hands braced against the floor next to his head, your legs trapping his—you’re more than pleased with yourself, but you would have thought he’d put up a better fight than this—and he catches one of your wings in his claws and _twists_ so hard that your vision nearly whites out from the pain of it.

                You deserved that, perhaps, but you’re done underestimating him. He tries to fight his way upright, and you put a hand to his throat to hold him pinned. You can feel his spike slide against your stomach when he struggles against you. You reach back to open your own panel, then put your hand to his side to brace yourself. Again, he’s momentarily still. And then he tries to knee you in the valve.

                You snarl and bear down against him, your claws biting into his neck, sinking between the armor plates in his side. He’s still fighting back as your claws dig into him, and he doesn’t flinch away, even when energon starts to drip past your fingers, only laughs and laughs. You freeze. You don’t know—Something is _off_ , this was too easy, what is he—

                Tailgate says, “Cyclonus?”

                It’s enough to startle you into motion. You stumble to your feet. “ _Tyrest_ ,” you manage. “Whirl, what—”

                Whirl lunges after you, shouting, “Don’t you _dare_ bail out now—”

                Tailgate is there between you. He catches Whirl’s claws in his hands easily, holding steady even when Whirl tries to push him aside. Even knowing how strong he’s become, it’s difficult to suppress the urge to protect him, but—This is better. Right now. You take a few more uneasy steps backwards until can lean up against the wall and try to steady your spark.

                Tailgate is reaching up to hold Whirl, one hand on either side of his face, and is talking to him too softly for you to hear. Whirl tries to shove past him, towards you, but Tailgate holds firm. You can’t help but notice that If Whirl stood upright, he’d be too tall for Tailgate to hold that way. He doesn’t stand upright. Instead, he slowly stills as Tailgate talks. He drops his gaze from you, looks down at Tailgate instead.

                After a few tense kliks, Whirl drops to his knees. Tailgate is still holding him, but he drops one hand from Whirl’s face, down to where there’s still energon running down his neck. When you glance down, your fingers are still stained pink. You look away. You can’t hear what Tailgate is saying. You ought to… go. Rather, even if you know you should stay, you wish you had the nerve to leave.

                It feels like an eternity before Whirl replies to Tailgate—you can’t make out his words, but the tone is joking—and puts an easy arm around Tailgate’s waist. You’re still frozen and uncertain, until Tailgate turns to you and holds out his hand. It’s a bare few steps across the room, but it’s too far, much too far, until finally you can reach out to him. He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, and doesn’t let it go. You’re grateful.

                Like this, you tower over both of them. It isn’t right. You go to your knees in front of Tailgate, never releasing his hand, beside Whirl. Tailgate simply watches the two of you for a long moment. You can’t take your optics from him, and you think Whirl is in much the same position. Tailgate does eventually drop your hand, but don’t even have time to regret the loss before he moves his hand to cup your cheek instead. You allow yourself the indulgence of leaning into that contact.

                Tailgate’s thumb moves over and over your cheek as he holds you. He looks between you and Whirl, and even though you still wait for him in silence, it’s an easier, more serene silence than before. Finally, with one hand gently holding you and one holding Whirl, he says, “Now, why don’t we see if we can try that again— _together_.”


	13. Megatron/Trepan: Medical

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for what's essentially a lobotomy in this story
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/142053671401/characters-megatron-trepan-rating-t-words-1648)

                The guards who accompanied you and Froid are the ones to bring the miner down and strap him to the operating table. But you bolt his gag on yourself. Those little personal touches are more important than people realize. So you bolt his mouth shut. You remove his outer helmet. And carefully, delicately, you unfurl the petals of his inner helmet to reveal his brain module for you, so exposed, so _vulnerable_.

                You just enjoy the sight for a few kliks, waiting for the miner to come around again. You don’t tend to bother— _delicacy_ isn’t usually one of your priorities— but you are under strict orders that this alteration needs to be subtle and very, very thorough. You aren’t expecting him to keep you waiting for long, not after how hard he fought when the guards were bringing him down.

                When he wakes up, he tries to struggle. Tries to argue. They do rather tend to do that. You expect you would too, in their place, but a few years tend to take the edge off the effect of even the most pathetic desperation, and you’ve been doing your job for much, much longer than that. You do give him a few cursory warnings. Everyone you’re brought to _knows_ why this is being done to them, so if his mind is on the surgery, he’ll be thinking about the precisely the things you need to erase. It’s quite an elegant solution.

                Still though, this one is a difficult case. Really, the Senate should just have him brought in for a complete personality rewrite, or they should just scrap him. Accidents happen on these mining stations so very often—or even if they don’t, you’re sure it would be easy to convince anyone skeptical of a more appropriate truth. And once your needles sink into his brain module, you can feel him overflowing with oh, so many thoughts, so many _questions!_ You’re surprised he hasn’t been brought to you before now. You’d wondered at the extent of the adjustment the Senate ordered, but really, you’re starting to think they haven’t gone far enough.

                With your free hand, you begin to unbolt the miner’s mouth. You make friendly conversation. And you quietly begin dissolving some of the more… overtly problematic urges you find. Revolution? Goodness no, that will never stand. Reform? No no, it will all have to go. But you need to be quite sure you aren’t missing anything.

                When the miner’s mouth is unbolted, he doesn’t beg you for freedom. You can still feel his mind racing panic-fast, echoing up through your fingers, but you are impressed. You say, “While I fear neither of us has a choice in the matter, Cybertron does certainly value its philosophers. I do need to make my little changes, but the Senate wouldn’t want to see your intellect damaged in the process.” You smile at him. “If you help me, I’ll bring you through this as intact as possible.”

                He watches you wordlessly. You let the screaming in his head wash over and past you.

                “Talk to me,” you say. “I’ve read some of your work. Quite intriguing. Have you been working on anything new? Or I’ve heard you occasionally dabble in poetry.”

                He won’t meet your optics. He fixes his gaze on the ceiling and begins to recite. “In denying you the ability to reject your alt mode—in preventing you from pursuing a path of your own choosing—both the Senate and the Council say they are acting in your best interests. They have a responsibility, they say, to ensure that you make best use of your god-given form. If you turn into a drill, it’s because Primus knows that Cybertron needs drills. To deviate from your function is to risk bringing the world to its knees.

                “In truth it is about control.  A multi-skilled population is an empowered population. And if you reject your alt mode, what next? Would you reject your class? Would you reject your government?”

                “ _Fascinating_ ,” you murmur. “Do go on.”

                You listen—barely. Your mind is on your work. You don’t erase what’s at the top of his mind—goodness no. That would be a waste. You… stir, perhaps. Gently rummage, agitate the connections between what he's saying and everything buried deeper so that the relevant thoughts rise to the surface. And then you sever those little unfortunate bits and pieces, cut them off from the surrounding memories, let the ideas dissolve into nothingness. There is certainly a great deal to sort through in here. Really, you should have been called in long ago.

                He continues, “And that is why when you see a stranger you don’t think, ‘What are they like?’ You think, ‘What are they for?’ You don’t think, ‘What are their hopes, dreams, and aspirations?’ You think, ‘Where are they positioned in relation to me? Do they sit above, alongside, or below? Are they better than me, or I them?”

                And your communicator goes off. You can’t believe this. Really, this could not possibly be any more inconvenient. And when Froid tells you to stop the operation, you… agree. You tell him, very truthfully, that the treatment wasn’t _quite_ finished, but it had already progressed quite some ways. You never know who might be listening to these calls.

                When you put your communicator away, oh _dear_ , the miner looks so hopeful. He struggles against his bonds when you go back to his brain module. But there’s nothing for it. This bed was made to hold stronger mechs than him, and you’re too good at your job to let something this minor unnerve you. He’s starting to leak from the eyes. You suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later, but really, you’d planned to make it a bit further before he started making a mess.

                Your needles easily sink back into his brain. You say, “Where were we? I do seem to have forgotten.”

                “ _They told you to stop_.”

                You snap the fingers of your free hand. “’In denying you the ability,’ that’s right. Will you begin from there?”

                He stares past you at the ceiling, silent.

                You add, “If you force me to go in blind, I’m afraid the possibility of irreversible damage is much, _much_ greater.”

                For a moment longer, he hesitates. But he does begin again. “In denying you the ability to reject your alt mode—”

                Now, you don’t have the time to be as delicate as before. He remembers that _this_ point was made less elegantly in an earlier paper—you erase it. He thinks that Terminus recommended he phrase his next point _this_ way—ah, Terminus. You hold that memory, branch from there to every word he’s written, every conversation he’s had, and from there the memories split away into seams of private thought, the delicate little capillaries of each individual idea. You collect the whole system to yourself. And then you begin to eradicate it.

                Once you’ve reached that point, he begins to slip.

                “But the Functionists—enabled by the, the—By the— ”

                “The Senate,” you prompt.

                “By the Senate—have created the conditions that have given rise to this…”

                His voice trails off into silence. You let it rest for a moment, still working away, then you give him a concerned look, and say, “Lost your place? Would you mind starting over? I do need to be sure that I’m not damaging you.”

                He hesitates, confused. His voice is quiet when he begins, “In denying you the ability to reject your alt mode—in preventing you from pursuing. From. From pursuing a—”

                “Path.”

                “Path.” He stops.

                “Of your own choosing.”

                “Of your— Of your own—” He stammers to a halt.

                You’re nearly done.  There are only smallest hints of those little problematic thoughts left floating around in his mind. “Start again,” you tell him.

                “In denying you…” A pause. He stares at the ceiling. “In denying you…” Silence.

                And then you sweep up the last scraps of personality, those little quirks that seem to have caused this mess in the first place. You take that independent philosophical streak of his. You take away that nasty little drive for improvement he has, there’s really no call for a miner to be feeling anything like _that_. And all sorts of other little things. He won’t remember them ever being there, so he won’t be in a position to miss them when they’re gone.

                By the time Froid comes into the room with Rung, your needles are tucked away and you’ve had a helpful waste disposal mech come through to clean everything up. The miner still lies there on the slab with his brain module sitting exposed, but he’s still and calm. You explain to Froid just how much progress you made before he contacted you, and how you stopped the moment you received his call. Everything is in order, and you, of course, have followed protocol perfectly.

                When the sirens go off and the evacuation begins, the miner needs assistance getting off the slab, and then he needs further assistance finding a shuttle. The poor thing is quite disoriented. You reassure the guards helping him on his way that this is a _perfectly_ normal reaction to mnemosurgery, and—barring some unforeseen medical emergency, of course—he should return to normal within a few solar cycles. You make your way to your own shuttle with Froid, content with the satisfaction of a job well done. As your craft prepares for flight, you update the Senate on your progress, and the time you’ve cleared Messatine’s atmosphere, they’ve already sent you a new heading. You settle in to relax and enjoy your journey, though you won’t deny that you’re already looking forward to your next surgery. You do certainly enjoy these little assignments, and there’s always so much work to be done.


	14. Cyclonus/Tailgate/Whirl: Bodies And Body Parts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/142203353166/relationship-cyclonuswhirltailgate-rating-m)

               Tailgate balances on Whirl’s hips. A little precarious, perhaps, but Whirl has himself propped up on one elbow so he can watch the two of you, and his free claw is secure around Tailgate’s waist, holding him steady. Your own hands are already occupied, under Whirl’s thighs, trying to shift him a little so you can just— It isn’t helping that Whirl won’t hold still, and it’s helping even less that whenever Whirl shifts inside Tailgate, Tailgate makes the most appealingly distracting noises you’ve ever heard.

               Despite Whirl’s determination to make this as difficult as possible, you manage. You get his, hips up, you get your spike lined up with his valve.

               And just as you begin to press forward into him, Whirl kicks against the outside of your thigh and says, “ _Come on if you think you’re hard enough_.”

               You pause, uncertain. Tailgate and Whirl are frozen, watching you. And then, together, they burst into laughter.

               “—human saying—”

               “—would know if you ever paid attention at movie night—”

               “—but _also_ if you look at human interfacing—”

               “— _so weird—_ ”

               “—but if you put them together it sounds really suggestive—”

               They’re talking over each other and are completely incomprehensible, and you believe you are even more lost than you were at first. You hide your smile behind Tailgate’s head, put one arm around his waist, and resettle your other hand on Whirl’s thigh as you let your spike slide into his valve.

               Whirl and Tailgate are still laughing over their apparent joke, but you can hear the burst of static in Whirl’s voice as you begin to fill him. When you let his aft settle into your lap, Tailgate leans back against your chest as you curl forward around him, resting a hand on your arm. His other hand is braced against Whirl’s chest. Whirl watches the two of you, his legs tight around your waist. He arches against you, not enough to dislodge Tailgate, but pulling you that small measure deeper into him.

               Tailgate’s fans are venting hot against you, and you can hear it in his voice whenever you or Whirl shifts under him. You’re quiet, except for the hum of your fans. Whirl is as silent as you, which you… had not expected. When you watch him more closely, you see his gaze drop to Tailgate’s waist, then his spike. It takes you some few moments to understand. But you think—with his _claws_ he can’t—

               You take your arm from around Tailgate’s waist to reach down and take his spike in hand. Whirl starts, and then when he looks up and sees you watching him, he immediately turns away in a completely different direction, as if he’d never been looking at anything at all. You drive into him just the slightest bit harder on your next thrust, hard enough to surprise a noise out of him.

               Tailgate laughs again, choked by static. He puts both his hands on Whirl’s claw, where it sits around his waist. You barely have the time to be jealous before he leans his head sideways, letting his cheek rest against yours.

               Whirl watches both of you for a long moment—you can’t read him well, even now, but Tailgate doesn’t seem worried, and you suppose that will have to stand for reassurance—before he relaxes onto his back. His free claw comes up, glances awkwardly off your arm before you can react. You’re unsure of what to do at first, until Tailgate nudges you with his shoulder and tilts his head over towards the claw.

               You have to let go of Whirl’s thigh to free yourself, but you catch Whirl’s claw in your hand. His claw closes around your fingers so gently you can hardly credit it. You’re held motionless until Tailgate shifts against you. Then Whirl manages to get a leg up and kick you in middle of your back. Tailgate says something to him—another reference you don’t understand—but it’s fine, because he and Tailgate are laughing together. You find yourself smiling again, and without dropping Whirl’s hand, without pulling away from Tailgate, you begin to move against them.


	15. Megatron/Rodimus: Humilation (Situational) (Optimus Prime)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/142221135001/relationship-megatronrodimus-rating-hard-t)

                Rodimus is distracted. In the berth, at least, that’s normally _your_ purview. It’s far too easy for you to—lose yourself, let’s say. To question how you were fortunate enough to come here, to have this. All of it. Rodimus may be very… _Rodimus_ most of the time, but in the berth, the way he acts is in equal parts fascinating and frustrating, a glimpse of what he might accomplish if he could apply this sort of focus to something other than his own gratification.

                Most nights, that is. Tonight, you’re lying on your back with him sitting astride your hips, your hands on his waist. You’re letting yourself relax, savor him, memorize every movement and expression he makes, every word he says. You don’t know what does it, but you can feel the moment his rhythm falters. You can see his smile slip until he replaces it with a grin that rings distressingly false.

                You prop yourself up on one arm. “Rodimus—”

                He tries to push you back down. “Whoa, hey, I’m in the middle of something here. Unless you’re all worn out? Can’t blame you, not many mechs who can keep up with a ‘bot like _this—”_

                You watch him evenly. The pretense doesn’t hold up for long. He lets the smile fall, lets himself curl forward until his forehead rests against your shoulder.

                Eventually, he says, “Hey.”

                “Hello to you too.” You put your free arm around him. “What’s wrong?”

                He shrugs. “Dunno. Stuff.”

                “Do you want me to stop?”

                “ _No_.”

                “I won’t, then.” You do move to resettle. You turn, carefully (Rodimus clings to your shoulders and refuses to move his face from where he’s buried it against your neck), until he’s laid on his back on the berth, with you braced above him. His legs are still wrapped around your hips, and when you try to move at all, Rodimus just… dangles from you. It’s almost silly enough to overcome your worry. You’ll tell Rodimus about it later, when he can smile over it.

                So, reluctantly, you untangle his arms from around you. He lets you do it. When you pull back far enough to look at him, he won’t quite meet your optics, but he manages a half-smile for you.

                “Sorry,” he says.

                You cup his cheek with one hand. “Something I did?” He shakes his head. “Something else? Memories?”

                That gets you a one-shouldered shrug. He laughs, forced and uneasy. “You know. Same old junk.”

                You’re uncertain what to say. “I do hope you don’t think you’ve disappointed me in any way.”

                Another wooden laugh. “No, no, you didn’t—It’s just. You start thinking about how you’ve let down _one_ bot and that just leads you to another and whoops where are the brakes, that’s enough, I’d like to stop now, thanks—”

                He cuts himself off when you bend down, but you just press your lips to his once and pull back. “You shouldn’t take what Optimus said so much to heart.”

                A shrug.

                You take your hand from his cheek, catch his hand. Cover his palm. The numbers carved there have long since been repaired, and you don’t even know if he’ll understand the gesture, but you want to make it, regardless. He hesitates, but his fingers curl around yours. He sighs—the verbal tics some mechs pick up from organics, _honestly_ —and after a moment, he manages a true smile for you.

                He slings his free arm around your neck and drags you down to him. You’re more than willing to be kissed. But he stops with his lips just barely not touching yours. A dramatic pause—very Rodimus—and he says, “Then _you_ shouldn’t take what he says to heart _either_.”

                It surprises you into a laugh. He grins and kisses you then, one soft kiss, then another and a third, over and over, until you’re pressing him into the berth, his legs wrapped around yours.

                You could spend, oh, _days_ like this, easily. But it’s only a few moments before Rodimus grows impatient and starts kicking at your legs, trying to rock side to side. He’ll never shift a mech your size, so you play clueless until he’s glaring at you, trying and failing utterly to hold back his laughter. “Roll over, _roll over_ , come on, Megs—you said I could be on top today, _Megatron—”_

                You could hold out for longer. But that would mean telling Rodimus no, and well. Why would you want to do that when he smiles so beautifully for you when you say yes?

                When you’re on your back again, Rodimus settles across your hips again, beaming down at you. He bends forward far enough to take your hands, pinning them to the berth beside your head. From that close, there’s no way he can possibly miss how it makes your fans spin up faster. He grins even wider and laughs. Laughs the way he _should_ laugh. You can’t help a slight return smile yourself. Rodimus lets his fingers tangle with yours, looks into your optics, still smiling, and says, “Right, then. Where were we?”


	16. Cyclonus/Tailgate/Whirl: Bodies Alteration/Injury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumbr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/142225637531/relationship-cyclonustailgatewhirl-rating-hard)

                Cyclonus is giving you and Whirl lessons. _Singing_ lessons. Or, um. He’s trying to give you two lessons. Or maybe he’s just giving lessons to you, as in the singular, solo you? Okay, start over: Cyclonus is trying to give singing lessons, you’re trying to take singing lessons, and Whirl is making trouble.

                 You’re not that surprised! You want to learn Old Cybertronian, Cyclonus wants to teach you Old Cybertronian, and Whirl has no interest whatsoever in learning Old Cybertronian, but he really, really doesn’t want to be left out. Which makes sense! To you, at least. There’s nothing worse than finding out that people were doing a thing and they forgot you, or they left you out on purpose, or anything like that. So you asked Cyclonus to give lessons to both of you, and he sighed about it (because he wouldn’t be Cyclonus if he didn’t at least pretend to hate just about everything fun), but he agreed.

                And Whirl is at least kind of self-aware! He got bored with the singing part of the evening in about no time flat, but he brought a bunch of clock-making things to keep himself busy, and he’s been lounging around on your berth doing whatever making clocks involves while Cyclonus teaches you old songs.

                The trouble is, it’s cycles later, the lesson is still going strong, your room has significantly more clocks than it did before Whirl came over, and Whirl is out of things to keep himself entertained. He’s hanging over the edge of your berth, upside-down, with his wings nearly scraping against the floor. The way his legs are kicking, you keep worrying that he’s about to overbalance—if he does, you bet his cockpit is going to catch on Cyclonus’s berth and it will be _hilarious—_ and it’s making it really, really hard to concentrate on the music.

                You got the pronunciation—mostly. And you can manage the melody… but only if you’re singing along with Cyclonus. Now he wants you to do harmonies and he’s got his own lyrics that are different from yours and haha, wow, you’ve _kind of_ got the words, and you’ve _kind of_ got the notes, but those ‘kind of’ qualifiers are a _little important_ —

                Cyclonus holds up his hand. “Nearly. But the minor third harmony would have been unheard of at the time this was composed. The perfect fourth is more traditional.” He pauses. “Properly, my line should be an octave lower. I thought this would make the harmonies more intuitive, but perhaps—”

                “ _Hey_ ,” Whirl cuts in. “Hey, Cyclonus. You know where those low notes would sound good? If you were singing them around my—”

                “ _Whirl_.”

                You muffle a laugh. Badly.

                Cyclonus gives you a disapproving look. But you know him too well, _that’s_ the disapproving look that’s basically as good as a smile.

                And, well. You’re kind of worn out. You’ve (mostly) memorized six long, _long_ stanzas of poetry, and you’ve nearly got the music down, and you’ve been doing this for half the day, and there’s only so much learning you can do in just one sitting.

                You think Cyclonus can probably read it in your face, because he doesn’t push it. He gives you an _actual_ smile, which wow, that’s—wow. And he takes a couple steps over to your berth, sits down, and makes like he’s going to tip Whirl over. He _doesn’t_ , but Whirl still tries to react, overbalances, and over he goes. His cockpit _totally_ catches on Cyclonus’s berth and he tips over sideways, landing on his back on the floor.

                Before he has a chance to get upset at Cyclonus, you go over and sit right on his stomach. You prop your arms up on the edge of his cockpit and look down at him. “So how much Old Cybertronian did you learn today?”

                He waves a dismissive claw. “As much as I wanted to. How many clocks did you make today?”

                You laugh. “As many as I wanted to?”

                That makes him laugh too. You don’t budge, but he stands up anyways. He catches you in one arm as you start to slip, then deposits you neatly in Cyclonus’s lap. Whirl sits down next to him, and manages to deliberately bump his wings into Cyclonus’s, oh, only two or three times.

                And _ha_ , that means that _you_ get to sprawl across two whole laps! Cyclonus has one arm under your shoulders and Whirl’s got a claw lying on your legs, and basically everything is perfect. You tell Whirl, “Well you still got to listen to us sing for you for ages and ages. Your turn! It’s only fair, now you have to sing something for us!”

                He shrugs. “Can’t.”

                “Pfft! Doesn’t matter if it’s bad, you had to listen to me! I just want to hear what you sound like.”

                Cyclonus says, “Tailgate—

                Whirl waves him off. “Nah, it’s fine.” He looks down at you. “I mean I _can’t_.”

                You’re… not following.

                Whirl gestures at his face with one claw. “Think they just took my face? Ha, no. There’s all kinds of little structures that used to be in there, related to, y’know, vocalization.”

                It takes you too long to get it. Your voice is too quiet when you manage, “…oh.”

                He leans forward, waving his claw down at you. “No, no, I’m one of the lucky ones. Early model, test run, seeing how much they can cut before you stop being functional. Later they started deciding that inflection didn’t matter at _all_ , or voices in the first place—”

                See, this is what happens when you get too comfortable, you wind up saying stupid junk about things you don’t understand. You really should know better by now. You look away, off to the side, but you can still see Whirl give Cyclonus a nervous look from the corner of your optics.

                Cyclonus says, “Tailgate.” You reluctantly turn back to look at them. They’re both leaned together, shoulder to shoulder, watching you. Whirl’s arm is resting across your legs again, holding you against him.

                Awkward silence. They don’t look like they know what to say. _You_ sure don’t know what to say. You’re trying not to overreact, because both their arms are still around you, you’re pretty sure they’re trying to make you feel better, but they know you screwed up, _you_ know you screwed up, and you’re pretty sure that feeling lousy is part of the I-made-a-mistake deal.

                Eventually, Cyclonus looks away from you, over to Whirl. “As Tailgate’s teacher, I think it’s important to be sure that he retains the information he’s learning.

                Whirl pauses for a moment, then perks up. “You mean a _test_.”

                “Not only a test, but—”

                “ _I want to see what he remembers when you’ve got your mouth on his valve._ ”

                Cyclonus stops. Sighs. “To cut to the chase, yes.”

                Oh. _Oh_. You smother a laugh. Whirl’s claws already feel _much_ more interesting where they’re resting against your legs, and your fans are starting to spin up. Whirl helps you upright, getting you settled his lap while Cyclonus goes to his knees on the floor, putting a hand on each of your legs.

                Whirl puts his arms around your waist and makes a pleased little noise as he looks down past you at Cyclonus. He says, “Six stanzas?” Cyclonus nods. “I think one overload per stanza sounds like a fair deal, don’t you?”

                Cyclonus looks up at you and smiles. “From the beginning, then.”

                Whirl laughs, his arms still perfect and secure around you. “Try not to make too many mistakes, or watch out, we might just be here all night.”


	17. Megatron/Optimus Prime/Rodimus: Double Penetration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr

                Rodimus is so sweet between you and Optimus. You’ve never seen a mech so responsive, so eager to please. Some jealous corner of your mind whispers that Rodimus would be sweeter against you alone, or that you and Optimus have enough history together that you shouldn’t be asked to _share_ him with another mech— You push those thoughts back. It isn’t the time or place, and you should simply be thankful that either of these two is somehow willing to share a berth with you.

                It’s… better for you and Optimus to focus on Rodimus. It’s safer. It would be so easy for you and Optimus to fall into each other, the same way you can’t ever _stop_ yourselves from falling into each other. And you’ve seen how that turns to poison, over and over and over. So you turn your optics and your hands to Rodimus instead. Optimus does the same. You feel guilty, then, that so much of your attention remains on Optimus, even when Rodimus is gasping your name so prettily.

                You do your best to give Rodimus what he deserves from you. He sits chest to chest with Optimus, filling his lap—you aren’t so petty as to deny Optimus that much, even if you wish it was you beneath Rodimus instead—with Optimus’s hands on his thighs. Your chestplate is against Rodimus’s back, your hands on his waist. His optics are on Optimus. His gaze darts between Optimus’s face—you could almost hate him for how serene and detached he looks with Rodimus sitting there, so ready to please, so eager and willing—focus. Rodimus’s gaze darts between Optimus’s face and the space between them, where Optimus’s spike rests against his own.

                Optimus doesn’t move against him. Rodimus sits, drawn so taut you can feel him tremble, but he holds himself still. Optimus’s legs are spread just enough that you’re certain Rodimus isn’t getting any contact on his valve. Optimus makes no move to touch their spikes.

                Rodimus loses patience first, and his hand darts toward his spike. Even though your optics are carefully fixed on Rodimus alone, you think you and Optimus share a secret smile over that. You catch his hand before he can make contact, then steal his other hand away too. He protests weakly, until Optimus shifts, bends forward towards him.

                “Is something wrong, Rodimus?”

                Utterly infuriating. Playing clueless, and so transparently. Of course, you might have made a similar play, but—different. Better. You need to stop thinking this way. You should focus instead on how that silly little line still gets to Rodimus. He shivers, begs Optimus to touch him—begs you too. You’re quietly, _privately_ glad that you haven’t been forgotten.

                Optimus relents sooner than you would. Rodimus is lovely when he begs, it seems like such a waste to lose the opportunity to savor him when he’s so desperate. But Optimus reaches for their spikes and begins to stroke.

                You’re not being neglected. You need to remember that. Even if Rodimus’s attention is on Optimus right now. You still hold his arms back, and he clings to your hands. Your chestplate is still pressed against his back, you hold him upright. _Still_.

                You resist, briefly. But eventually you cross his arms behind his back, catch his wrists in a single hand. You reach for his chin with your free hand, tilt his head back until he bends into a beautiful arch. His optics are on you now. You bend to kiss him, slow and deep, and memorize the words he gasps against your mouth.

                It doesn’t take Rodimus long to finish—you’re not sure it _ever_ does, but he’s so lovely when he overloads that you sometimes wish he finished even faster than he does. When he’s done shaking and you release him, Optimus is watching you levelly. You have to fight not to look away. You—shouldn’t feel obligated to neglect Rodimus for Optimus’s sake. You’re as much a part of this as either of them. When you let your eyes finally drop, Optimus’s chest is spotted with transfluid. A quiet corner of your brain wonders what it would be like to see him beneath you, spattered with _your_ transfluid. It takes you too long to look away.

                Rodimus is pulling away from you, though. He tugs his hands free, and you have to suppress the sudden jealous surge when he throws his arms around Optimus’s neck. You watch while he presses his lips to Optimus’s faceplate, rests their foreheads together, says something too quiet for you to hear. Before you can even figure out how to properly react—never mind your first instincts, this is _not_ the time to act like—like you shouldn’t—but Rodimus is already pulling back from Optimus and turning around.

                You reach out for him, but he isn’t turning for, for _you_. He’s already settling down into Optimus’s lap again, reaching down to find Optimus’s spike. He looks back over his shoulder and flirts, laughs, as he lowers himself down onto Optimus. You can’t even bring yourself to enjoy the noises he makes as Optimus fills him. You watch his thighs shake, listen to the way his fans spin faster, but you’re holding yourself far too still, they’ll _know—_

                Rodimus reaches for you, and you’re too slow to react. He grabs one of your legs, pulls you in closer, and you half-stumble before you catch yourself. You’re still watching him, uncomprehending, as he takes your spike in hand. He’s smiling, easy and natural, as he looks up at you. He presses a quick kiss to the tip of your spike, and laughs at the way you shudder. Then before you have time to properly brace yourself, he bends his head and takes you deep into his mouth.

                You make an undignified noise and curl forward around him as he takes you in. Optimus is watching, but you—won’t let yourself care. Rodimus deserves your attention now. Your hands are shaky as they cup his cheeks. When he pulls back, he looks up at you, your spike balanced delicately on his lips before he presses forward again. You can feel him laughing against your spike, and all you can do is stroke his cheeks, cradling his head as he moves against you, hoping that the gesture conveys at least some small measure of what you’re feeling.

                Rodimus rocks between you and Optimus at his own pace—fast, of course. You think Optimus would be inclined to tease it out and take his time, the same way you would. But his hands rest lightly on Rodimus’s waist, providing as little guidance as your hands on his cheeks. Rodimus’s optics are dimmed now, and you can feel the tremble running through his frame. He isn’t laughing now, but the little helpless needing noises he makes around your spike are even better.

                You do steal one or two quick glances at Optimus, and it is gratifying to see that he appears to be as affected as you. His optics are on Rodimus, and you can feel how hot his fans are venting even from this distance. When Optimus reaches a hand beneath Rodimus, you can’t see the way he touches Rodimus’s spike, but you can feel the way Rodimus’s rhythm falters, the new desperation in his movements. It won’t be long for him now. You want to wait, you want to hold out and chase your own overload as slowly and lazily as possible. But you don’t know if you’ll manage it.

                Rodimus certainly doesn’t wait. He moans around you, clutches at the back of your legs, pulling you in deep. He rocks against Optimus, desperate and unsteady, all while holding you tight against him. You stroke his cheek and urge him on. He shakes and shudders so beautifully, making muffled noises past your spike. You can feel his transfluid splash against your legs when he overloads.

                When he finally stills, he pulls back from you, and you bite back a protest. But he only stops to laugh, kiss your spike, and laugh again before he takes you back into his mouth. He releases a leg to spare a hand for your valve too. You aren’t expecting it—your hips jerk forward involuntarily before you regain control of yourself. Rodimus is still laughing around your spike and you are exasperated and enamored in equal measure.

                You see Optimus shift, and you look up. His optics are on you and Rodimus, and his arm is still moving and you can’t see, but—You realize with a sudden rush that Optimus is touching his valve, watching Rodimus—watching _you_ —you’re transfixed. Your optics meet his over Rodimus’s back. He gazes at you for an impossibly long moment. Then he throws his head back, shuddering and gasping, and that’s it, that’s too much—

                You think you gasp Rodimus’s name. You’re almost certain you call Optimus’s too. You know you clutch at Rodimus as your overload takes you, clinging desperately to him as you shake and try not to cry out.

                He sits up before you manage to straighten. He pulls away from your hands. You try to follow, but you’re still too unsteady. Instead, he gently cups _your_ face in his hands. You turn towards him, blindly, and he kisses you so gently you can hardly credit it. And then, of course, he laughs against your mouth.

                By the time you’ve recovered, he’s turned to Optimus. Not—not turned, as such. He’s still facing you. But Optimus’s arms are around his chest, holding his hands. Rodimus simply watches their joined hands, the tangle of their fingers, and you can’t look at his face for long before you have to turn away.

                You watch them, for a long moment, wondering whether you should leave and trying to convince yourself to stay. Rodimus settles back against Optimus’s chest, and that almost convinces for you. But the very next thing he does is to drop Optimus’s hands and reach out for you. You let him tug you forward, until you have to put a knee up on the berth. It’s that or overbalance onto Optimus, and that—no. And he’s still pulling you closer.

                “Rodimus,” you say.

                He grins. “Oh come on, you can’t tell me _that_ was enough to satisfy you.”

                Your optics meet Optimus’s. _Rodimus_ , you both wordlessly say. You think he might be smiling behind his faceplate.

                Rodimus tugs on your arm again. “If you don’t scratch the itch now, you’re just going to come bothering me first thing in the morning—I’m a co-captain, you know, very busy, lots of very important things to do—”

                “Heaven forbid anything interfere with your duties.” But you’re already smiling, you couldn’t stop yourself if you tried.

                Rodimus knows he’s won. “I challenge you,” he says, “to name a single time I have _ever_ let anything come between me and my captaining—that’s right, you can’t, because it’s never happened.”

                You do try to respond. And your co-captain reaches up to pull your head down, kissing you messily every time you try to say a single word. Though being kissed by Rodimus is certainly not something you’re opposed to. Your knee is already on the berth, but you brace your hands on either side of him, let yourself shift your weight forward, pressing yourself closer to Rodimus. You feel Optimus shift his hand to rest softly on top of yours.

                You tilt your forehead down against Rodimus’s, look into his optics for a long moment, and smile. "I think," you say, "you may have convinced me.”


	18. Chromedome/Prowl: Virginity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/142601077576/relationship-chromedomeprowl-rating-hard-t)

                When you and Tumbler finally fall into each other, it feels as easy and natural as transforming. You can’t help feeling like you’ve _always_ known that this would happen, that it _had_ to happen. That belies the sleepless nights you’ve spent worrying that it never would, _but_. It did. You’re here, he’s here, and you fit together as seamlessly as you always knew you would. It’s perfect. _He’s_ perfect.

                You, perhaps, are less perfect. You think—or more honestly, you _know_ —that Tumbler is as new to this as you are. There isn’t a whisper of a conjunx endura anywhere in his records, nobody that he could have been that intimate with. The two of you met when you were both young, and you’ve been together— _friends_ together—ever since. Yet now, he seems to take to this so easily, and you are painfully aware that however much abstract knowledge you may have, it is translating… _poorly_ in practice.

                Tumbler pauses, one hand on your hip, one tracing the edges of your chest plating. He looks at you for a moment and asks, “What’s wrong?”

                You don’t jump. You don’t react. You don’t—don’t much of anything, really. You’re frozen, your hands sitting on Tumbler’s waist, and you don’t know what you’re supposed to say.

                “Want to stop?”

                You shake your head.

                “Then do you know how you want this to go?”

                You still hesitate.

                He adds, “Come on, break it down. You keep telling me you can calculate the trajectory of eight hundred moving objects, I know you’re smart enough figure out two mechs.”

                You smile, despite yourself. You dim your optics, let your fans slowly vent while you concentrate. Tumbler takes his hands from you—but only so he can catch your hands instead. Which is—an acceptable development. You let your fingers curl around his.

                You say, “I can see 2,837 distinct ways this scenario is likely to play out. More if we expand the parameters to include—”

                “Hey now,” Tumbler says. He leans down to bump his forehead against yours. “We’re looking to narrow things down, not expand it. You know what, humor me, condition those results on what you’d find the most enjoyable.”

                This is—This is _embarrassing_ is what it is. But having a parameter to sort by helps more than you want to admit. Tumbler’s thumb is a distraction where it’s stroking over your knuckles, but you don’t think you want him to stop. “Me,” you finally manage, “on my back.”

                “Sure thing.” Even with your optics off, you’re fairly certain you can hear him smiling. You can’t recall how your legs work, but before you can try to correct for the situation, Tumbler drops one of your hands to put an arm around your waist. He turns you easily. Your legs hit the edge of the berth, and he eases you back down onto your recharge slab. “What else?”

                Your mind is racing, you can’t manage to still your spark, and you are very aware that you aren’t _holding_ Tumbler’s hand so much as you are _clinging_ to it. You eventually blurt, “You. Between my legs.”

                He drops your other hand so he can carefully part your thighs and step into the space between them. You don’t know what to do with your hands, and eventually settle for clutching at the edge of the berth. From this close, you can feel the heat radiating off him. Your optics are still off, but you can _feel_ him watching you, and you want him to never stop.

                His voice is soft when he says, “What next?”

                You’re frozen. Overwhelmed, maybe. You can’t string your thoughts together properly, never mind words.

                He adds, “Whatever you want from me, I’ll do it. For you.”

                One of Tumbler’s hands settles back onto your hip, and with the other, he reaches up to rest it over your spark chamber. You grab desperately onto his hands again, clinging to him. It helps. You focus on the distinct pressures from his fingertips, from his palms. That touch holds you together, undemanding and patient. You relax into him, allow your spark to settle.

                Finally, you manage, “Your spike—”

                It’s perfect.

                _He’s_ perfect.


	19. Tailgate/Whirl: Pictures (Of Watches)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For context, there was a forum conversation about the Lost Light crew and what kind of tumblr blogs they would have. So you know how you can use your nose to browse on your phone? Imagine Whirl flipping through tumblr like that with his face things. But then sunderedstar/oriflamme decided to hurt us all with this:
> 
> "Sometimes at night when he can't sleep, he stays up late, using his face things to scroll through his watch tag, and tries to figure out just from the pretty pictures of the mechanisms how he'd have put one together back when he still had hands. The light from the screen is just enough to illuminate his stacks of basic digital clock attempts on the desk across the room, and he ultimately lets the screen go dark because all he's done is give himself a queasy feeling that's one part wistfulness and two parts self-hatred and dysphoria"
> 
> I'm a sucker for shipping, so I took this concept and ran in a slightly different direction with it, but this is absolutely in line with what happens in the fic, and I had a fantastic time playing with these ideas.
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/142657859176/relationship-tailgatewhirl-rating-g-words-920)

                So there you are, flipping through your (secret, password-protected, _very secret_ ) watch blog, minding your own business. You’re doing your browsing thing with your face and not your claws—looks dumb, but hey, it works, and you’re kind of a little lacking on the whole _manual dexterity_ front these days. Bonus: when your screen is right up against your optic like this, it’s hard for any nosy busybodies to see what you’re doing (ha! nosy! it’s funny because you don’t have a nose).

                On the other hand, you’ve got your back to your door. For perfectly good reasons! Well, mostly because when you’re turned the other way, you keep catches glimpses out of the corner of your optic of your work table, and the little digital clocks you’ve made keep blinking back at you, and mmmyeah, nope, not feeling it right now. Plus you’re kind of distracted. There’s some real craftsmanship here in some of the posts you’ve collected, and it’s interesting seeing if you know enough—if you _remember_ enough—to see how to build them yourself. You were good at this, you know. Back in the day.

                So you see? There’s the problem. Your back is to the door, you’re all distracted, and this ship is populated by outgoing, sociable minibots who like to stick their nose into other people’s business. No wait, that doesn’t work, Tailgate doesn’t have a nose either. Hm. Well, he sticks the nose he doesn’t have into your business, so _there_.

                Now, don’t tell anyone, this is very private, top secret information—but you don’t actually _mind_ that much. Not even when he tackles you from behind, right out of the blue. Even when you really absolutely definitely are not expecting it. _In his defense_ , you did tell him that he could come in anytime, as long as your door wasn’t locked. Which it wasn’t.

                But okay, to cut a long, engaging, _perhaps slightly rambling_ story short, hanging off your shoulders puts Tailgate at the perfect height to see your watch blog.

                “Oh! That’s pretty.”

                It… is, yeah. You’re not arguing. It’s an antique dating back to pre-Nova Prime, and there’s multiple layers of crazy filigree work going on, with different metals to get different colors.

                Tailgate asks, “What blog is that? I think I’ll follow them.”

                Whoa, _hey_ , hold on. You turn your datapad down, and oh, can he not see your screen anymore? _Whoops_. “Since when do you care about watches? How many blogs are you even following?”

                He slides off your back, onto the floor, and shrugs.  “A thousand? And don’t worry, I caught the address, I’ll look it up myself.”

                Ughh _hhhh_. “There’s no way you keep up to date on all of them.”

                “I don’t? But there’s always lots of exciting new things to see, no matter what. And, um. Whirl? That blog needs a password?”

                You _might_ be a little challenged in the nose department, but you can still totally vocalize a _flawless_ disdainful sniff. “Well _maybe_ they only give the password out to the coolest of cool watch-appreciating mechs.”

                You put your datapad down. After a moment, you turn it over so that the screen’s facing away. Yeah, _really_ not feeling it right now. ‘Course then you don’t know where to look. Not looking at the datapad. _Definitely_ not looking at your hands. _Definitely definitely_ not looking at Tailgate.

                And hey, bonus, someone in the room is slightly less stupidly broken than you are. Tailgate doesn’t even bother trying to say something to make you feel better, _thank Primus_. He puts his datapad down too and climbs up into your lap. Your chair creaks, but yeah, whatever, he’s tiny, and you want him there. Also, nice and distracting, because it is objectively _hilarious_ watching anyone try to sit in your lap, and see two seconds ago: Tailgate is tiny. He ends up propping his arms and chin up on your cockpit, and even then he’s barely tall enough to see you over the edge. Okay, that’s adorable.

                You put your arms around his back to keep him there. It would be funny if your guns accidentally nudged him over backwards, but… you want him there. And it helps being able to just focus on him. What right does he have, being such a perfect size for lap-sitting purposes? It’s downright unfair is what it is.

                It’s nice to sit that way for a while, but there’s only so long you can spend not _doing_ anything before you start getting fidgety. And let’s be clear here, your ‘only so long’ is not very long at all.

                Tailgate notices. You’ve barely even had the chance to get the very first beginnings of a proper fidget going when he lifts his head and asks, “How do you get all the lacy bits?”

                “Oh, _filigree_.” You can’t even help it, you perk right up. “Okay, that’s really cool, and practically _nobody_ bothers to do it as fancy as it’s possible to get.”

                Tailgate settles in right against you and props his head up on his hands to listen. Your arms fit right around him and he fits right against you, so hey, you’d never say no to something that perfect (okay, yes, you _may perhaps_ have said no to plenty of good things over the years but shhhhh, don’t worry about it, let’s not linger on the past). _The point is_ , you want this. With him. So you settle right on down, with him in your lap, and you begin to talk.


	20. Prowl/Rewind: Humiliation (Verbal)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of warnings. This whole thing is very unhealthy, but particular warnings for discussion of suicide, sketchy consent practices, and mild violence in a sexual situation, plus lots of toxic emotional manipulation.
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/142671455296/relationship-rewindprowl-kind-of-plus)

                At some point, this made sense. Or you have to _assume_ that at some point this made sense, because the only other plausible explanation is that you are… desperate. You are not desperate, therefore the only explanation is that at some point, this _must_ have made sense.

                You’re surprised you agreed to it. You’re surprised _Rewind_ agreed to it. You’re less surprised that Chromedome would suggest it. He’s always been passive. He’s always preferred to dodge conflict rather than face it head on. You suppose that he thought there was some compromise to be had between you and Rewind.

                Of course, that presupposes that Rewind is _willing_ to compromise. He obviously isn’t. When you’re holding Chromedome against you, like—like you haven’t had the opportunity to in a very long time, Rewind is pulling him away, demanding his attention. When Rewind is on his back, Chromedome between his legs, you move behind him, your hands on his waist. Your spike _aches_ for him, and he isn’t doing anything with Rewind yet—and Rewind grabs his shoulders to turn him, so Chromedome is on his back on the berth, Rewind separating the two of you.

                This continues.

                There’s only so much you can take of Rewind jealously refusing you the smallest scrap of Chromedome’s attention. And as it happens, Chromedome agrees. He shoves you both away, and stands up, taking a few quick steps away from the berth before he turns back to look at the two of you.

                He buries his face in his hands before he speaks. “You know, for a while I honestly thought—I thought that you could—You know what? Never mind. Just—never mind. I’m leaving.”

                And he does.

                He won’t be back. You know him well enough for that. But you still can’t help waiting a few seconds, in case he _might—_ He doesn’t return, of course. You’re left kneeling on the berth with Rewind, and painfully, _furiously_ aware that he’s just cost you a precious, rare chance to repair things with a mech you—a mech you care deeply for.

                You watch Rewind. He sits quietly, not looking nearly repentant enough for your taste. You can’t resist saying, “I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

                His head snaps around to you. “ _Me?_ I’m not the one he was angry at. Sorry, did you miss the part where you kept trying to shove yourself between us? Because I sure didn’t miss it, and neither did Domey.”

                _Domey._ “You’re right, I must have been distracted by the way you threw yourself at him the moment he paid me the slightest bit of attention. Did you think that you were being subtle? If you’re going to persist in believing that Chromedome _wasn’t_ upset with you, feel free, by all means. It’s a rather obvious cognitive gap, but I can’t correct you if you refuse to listen to reason.”

                Rewind turns away. “See, this is why he can’t stand you.”

                It—stings. More than you want to admit. “Yes, clearly he can’t stand me. That must be why he wanted to interface with me. Why he particularly invited me to join you. For interface. I certainly hope you use better analytical skills than _that_ when working with your archives, it would be quite a problem if our historians weren’t capable of using basic logic.”

                “You know what this is? This is you being angry because you can’t control us. That’s what it always comes down to, isn’t it? You like someone until they stop doing exactly what you tell them, and that’s when you get mad.”

                “I get _mad—”_ It bursts out before you can stop yourself. The excess charge you haven’t been able to release is making it hard to concentrate. Well, better to press forward now than to backtrack and give ground. “If I am angry, it’s because you insist on passing judgment on a history between two mechs, a history you were _never_ part of, and one I am sure you don’t fully understand. And yet, you’re so certain you know better than either of us. Please, do keep telling me that _I’m_ the controlling one.”

                Rewind fingers drum against his thigh. You might be dealing with your own excess charge, but he’s clearly in a comparable situation. “You do know there’s a difference between supporting someone and _controlling_ them, right? And I really mean that, are you aware that there _is_ a difference?”

                You draw yourself up, suddenly and all-consumingly _furious_. You open your mouth, but Rewind cuts you off with a raised hand.

                “ _Shut up,_ let me finish. You do know where we met, don't you? You know what he was at the relinquishment clinic for? It’s really sad how obvious it is that you want me out of his life when you did such an awful job of being there for him that you didn’t have a clue he was going to kill himself until _months_ after it happened.”

                The anger has tipped over into cold, frozen fury now. “Congratulations, I hope that you’re proud. You successfully manipulated a suicidal mech into being emotionally dependent on you.”

                He begins, “That’s not—”

                “ _I wasn’t finished_. Do you think any of us have forgotten that you _have_ a conjunx endura? Do you think a single one of us has forgotten that _finding_ _him_ is the biggest goal of your life? You’ve taken a suicidal mech and convinced him that he can allow his life to revolve around yours, when you won’t even fully commit to him in return. Like I said, I hope you’re proud.”

                “Shut up,” he hisses, shoving in so close your faces are barely apart. “ _Shut up_. Just because you won’t believe I have genuine feelings for him—probably because you wouldn’t recognize genuine feelings if they stabbed you in the face—that doesn’t mean that you automatically _deserve_ to be number one in his life. You threw away your chance _years_ ago. If I died tomorrow, he still wouldn’t go back to you.”

                You sneer. “If you died tomorrow, Chromedome would have a better chance at happiness than if you lived for millions of years.”

                You think he’s about to hit you. You _hope_ he hits you. He wants to do it, you can see it in his optics. He pulls back his arm. _Do it_ , you think. **_Do it_.**

                Instead, he drops his hand to your spike and squeezes. You can’t hold back a jump and a gasp—the extra charge hasn’t dissipated at all, and you’re still achingly sensitive.

                Rewind laughs. “Looks like you’ve got a little bit of a problem there.”

                His spike is still pressurized, just the same as yours is. You can _see_ his thighs damp with lubrication. He follows your optics and laughs again. “Oh, me? No, this isn’t a _problem_. You see, I’ve got a partner. I’m sure you know what that’s like, just think back. Way, _way_ back. I just have to wait a while, and I’ll have someone nice and sweet willing to take care of this for me.”

                You reach between his legs, grind your palm hard and vicious against his valve. “You sound very sure of that. But wait, just think back—not far, just a few minutes. How certain are you that Chromedome is interested in _taking care of that_ for you right now? Or tell me, do you even care? Are you just planning to have him _take care of that_ for you regardless?

                “And you _wonder_ why he left you,” Rewind snaps. He shoves two fingers up your valve, and you bite back a noise. “You legitimately cannot comprehend why he left you.”

                That doesn’t deserve an answer. Instead, you get a thumb on Rewind’s node and don’t bother to hide your smirk at the way his hips jerk forward.

                He takes his hand from your valve, but before you can properly assess whether that means you’ve _won_ , he’s already shoving at your shoulders. “Come on, get on your back already. Or stop wasting my time.”

                “Such a sensitive lover,” you say, as you lay back. “I can certainly understand what Chromedome sees in you.”

                He’s climbing onto you to straddle your hips, but he says, “You’re in luck, I can’t see _anything_ Domey would have seen in you. Now try to hold out for a minute or two, at least, _some_ of us aren’t coming off a million-year dry spell.”

                Whatever you were about to say gets choked off as he sinks onto your spike—he’s so warm and so _tight_ —and he laughs at you. You grit your teeth. “I’m sure you picked up plenty of tricks from your _conjunx_. Chromedome must be so grateful you’re willing to share your expertise.”

                “Stop talking about—”

                It’s hard to concentrate, you can barely think past the feeling of his valve on your spike, it’s been—a long time. But, “So tell me, how long before you go back to the relinquishment clinics looking for Dominus Ambus again? It must be so convenient. When you get tired of Chromedome and decide you want a _different_ substitute for your conjunx, you can leave him right where you found him.”

                Rewind hits you. It feels like victory. You can feel energon trickling out of your nose, and you can’t help laughing and laughing. Rewind doesn’t even bother telling you to shut up, he just braces himself against your chest and drives down against you hard and fast. You won’t last long, but you don’t care—but you’re also not going to let him win any points off you. You get one hand on his spike, get your other hand on his node. He’s stretched around you, he’s feeling this as badly as you are, even if he’s trying not to show it.

                You overload first, but he’s only a few seconds behind you. He doesn’t say Chromedome’s name. You’re not sure what you would have done if he had. You allow yourself a few moments to recover while he’s still shaking through the aftershocks, but the moment he shifts from where he is on top of you, you’re in full control of yourself. You stand, pretend to dust off your frame—and carefully ignore the transfluid spattered across your chest and the energon dripping off your chin.

                You sketch a mocking half-bow and take one last look at Rewind. You do your best to memorize him like this, upset and disheveled and incoherent. You haven’t won. You were never going to win. But you’ve _hurt_ him. You say, “I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful evening.” And then you’re gone.


	21. Jazz/Prowl: Sensory Deprivation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/142778863341/relationship-jazzprowl-rating-e-words-2573)

                You aren’t sure what you’re expecting to get from this. Or, to be clear, you know _exactly_ what you’re going to get. Jazz is a known quantity. You and Jazz are a known quantity. Based on both theory and on past experience, there are a number of ways this situation could play out, and you’ve got a handle on all of them. So it’s beginning to get irritating that there’s some small corner of you that won’t stop hoping for something more.

                Do you want someone different? No. Something different? You don’t think so. At least you can’t articulate what sort of ‘something different’ you’d want. Do you not want to be doing this at all? That’s not it either.

                Not being able to dissect the problem only becomes more frustrating with time. And Jazz has always been observant. He’s close, when you’re kissing like this. As good as your self-control is, you’re sure you’ve still got plenty of little tells he’s learned to recognize.

                You can feel him hesitate. He breaks the kiss and asks, “Prowl? Something wrong?”

                You pause. “No.”

                “Want to stop?”

                “No.”

                He reaches out a hand and tips your chin up, so you’re looking him in the optics. “Want to keep going?”

                You look off to the side. “As implied by my previous response, yes.”

                He shrugs. Even with your optics turned away, you can just barely see his crooked smile. “Sometimes they’re not the same thing.”

                There’s nothing there for you to respond to, so you’re silent. You still can’t manage to find the root of your disquiet.

                After a moment, Jazz ventures, “…want me to take the lead?”

                You sigh. “I suppose. Though really, I’m not sure what you hope to—”

                He cuts you off with a finger across your lips. “Two ground rules. Or three, I guess, but I don’t think the last one will feel like much of a _rule._ ” You try to speak again, and he hushes you. “One, I want you to deactivate your optics. Two, deactivate your vox box.”

                This time, when you try to talk past his finger, he lets you. “And an escape?”

                “Turn either of those back on, and I hit the pause button, no problem.”

                Hm. You suppose that’s acceptable. “And the third rule?”

                Jazz grins. “The third rule is that you just lie back, relax, and let me take care of you.”

                You half-smother your smile—partly force of habit, and partly because Jazz doesn’t need any extra encouragement. “I suppose those rules are acceptable.”

                And you do it. Vision off first, then voice. You hesitate for a moment—you should have determined how things were going to start _before_ you did that—but Jazz’s hands are already on you, directing you. He turns you, eases you down to the floor. He follows, then pulls you up against him.

                You’re settled between his legs, leaned back against his chest. Based on the dimensions of the room, you’re assuming he’s supporting himself against the wall. This position won’t allow for much mobility, which drastically cuts into the number of potential outcomes this scenario might have—unless he’s planning to reposition you and have you ride him, perhaps. Or he could—

                Jazz wraps his arms around your chest and rests his chin on your shoulder. “Stop thinking so loud,” he says, “I told you, all you need to do is sit back and let me take care of you.”

                You… try. Passivity doesn’t come naturally to you. Which, you suspect, is why Jazz enjoys doing this sort of thing. He hasn’t been terribly specific with his rules, though, so you have some latitude to act. It’s difficult _not_ to think through the different ways you could take control of the situation. But like before, you’re frustratingly uncertain, and you can’t decide what you’re hoping to _get_ from this, and end up sitting frozen, trying to break down what you actually want.

                Jazz is just holding you. He’s running his fingers around the edges of your vents, tracing the detail work on your chest. But it’s just lazy, drifting caresses, touching without _purpose_ , and it gives you no clue as to his end goal. You do eventually turn your head toward him, far enough that he could kiss you if he wanted. He doesn’t want, apparently. Before you have time to be stung, he tilts his head so his cheek rests against yours, but he stays where he is. Watching himself touch you, you suppose.

                You have to admit, you thought that not using your voice would be the most difficult part of this. You can’t negotiate, can’t ask questions. You can’t say anything to Jazz to provoke a response, and he isn’t speaking on his own. But it’s almost worse, not being able to see. Jazz takes his time, all aimless touches. Toying with your vents, tracing each one of your transformation seams. You can’t tell what he’s going to _do_.

                One of his hands is drifting lower, at least. You can tell that much. It takes time—so much time—for him to get anywhere. You think he’s determined to outline every single plate on your stomach before he presses on. And all you have to focus on is the sensation of his fingers against you. You can’t even distract yourself by overanalyzing his body language, because you can’t _see_ him, only feel him—and that only in those few sensitive spots where his hands move against you.

                It feels like an eternity before his hand finally drops to your panel. Your internal chronometer disagrees, but it _feels_ like an eternity. It’s good you deactivated your vox box manually, because you aren’t prepared for that sudden firm contact after a lifetime of light, teasing touches. Your back arches before you can catch yourself, and your mouth falls open in a silent vocalization.

                Jazz notices, of course. He chuckles quietly, presses a quick kiss to your cheek before he leans his head against yours again. You wish you could reactivate your optics. You wish you could see your spike pressurizing into his hand instead of just _feeling_ it.

                Once he has your spike in hand, Jazz takes his other hand from your chest. You grab blindly for it, for a moment—but he’s not trying to hold your hand. With one hand, he traps your spike against your stomach, and with the other, he traces teasing circles around and around your valve.

                You’re in control of your reactions—enjoying yourself, but _in control—_ until he presses the heel of his hand down against your node. Your thighs involuntary clamp shut, trapping his hand against you. He laughs quietly again, nuzzles against your neck for half a moment, then breaks away to say, “I can’t lie, that’s adorable. But I’ll need that hand back if you want me to keep going.”

                You… hm. Aren’t strictly able to respond to him right now. But you make a very sincere effort to spread your thighs as scornfully as possible. And after brief consideration, you part your legs even wider, placing your feet outside Jazz’s legs, so you won’t be able to close them again. Like this, it’s impossible to ignore how wide you’re spread open for him. Your fans spin up, and you’re certain Jazz must have noticed. You can’t hear him or feel him reacting, but he must have noticed, you wish you could _see—_

                It’s a welcome distraction when his hand begins moving against your valve again. ‘Welcome’ may be the wrong word. It would be more accurate to say that he’s a relentless tease, his one hand still and unmoving against your spike, his other hand tracing around you, coming so _close_ to where you’re desperate to be touched, without ever once giving you the relief of that contact. He doesn’t even touch your node now. You can feel yourself dripping lubricant, you’re aching to be filled so badly it hurts, and he won’t properly _touch you_.

                You try to exercise self-control. Jazz is doing this to you _deliberately_ , that much is obvious. And there must be ways to communicate your desires to him, even without your voice or eyes. No, that’s not right, he’s certainly aware of what you want. You can’t _think_ clearly like this, your mind keeps circling back to strategies where you need to tell him—you can’t use your voice. Or if you could only _see_ what—your optics need to remain off. You’re sure there must be a way to get what you want without having to use your escapes and renegotiating from that point, and you absolutely don’t plan to, to just give in and _surrender._ But in the space of only a few minutes, you still find yourself reduced to struggling, working your hips down against Jazz’s hands, desperately chasing the contact you need.

                Jazz doesn’t laugh. But you can still feel the way his cheek moves when he smiles. He asks, “Did you need something?”

                Disingenuous in the extreme. It’s almost enough to annoy you back into proper control of yourself. But then you get lucky and Jazz’s hand glances across your node and it’s so _much_ and you weren’t _expecting_ it—He rubs your node again, deliberately. You shudder all over, arch and twist, blindly chasing his mouth with yours. He laughs now, gives you glancing kisses off your cheek, your chin, but it’s not enough, you _need—_

                He takes his hand off your spike, which is definitely _not_ the thing you need. Instead, he reaches up, across your chest, and takes hold of your chin. You try to jerk away, but he hooks two fingers in your mouth, holding you steady. His other hand rests light and unmoving against your valve, and it’s so close and not enough and why won’t he _touch you—_

                He presses a kiss to your neck. “Patient,” he says. Another kiss. “Almost there. Just be patient.”

                You’ve _been_ patient, you’ve been _more_ than patient. But you’re determined not to let him break you. You hold yourself as still as you can, despite the tremble running through your frame. Jazz drops lazy kiss after lazy kiss along your neck, ignoring the heat pouring from you and the way your legs shake as you hold them apart for him.

                When he finally slips a finger in your valve—It’s good that you braced yourself against his thighs, because your legs try to slam shut again. You make a noise—you _would_ have made a noise if your vocals weren’t switched off, but with his fingers in your mouth, he can feel your jaw work, feel your glossa move. You can feel his smile when he kisses you again.

                As wonderful as it is for him to finally _touch you_ , one finger—is not much. Your restraint fails you in a matter of seconds, and you struggle to work your hips down against him again. You can feel the lubricant running down your inner thighs, and you can feel your spike beginning to drip onto your stomach. Your—your hands are free. It wouldn’t be in the spirit of what Jazz seems to be aiming for, but—

                “Don’t do it,” he says. “I can see the wheels turning, you know.” He pauses. Kisses you again. More softly, he adds, “If you wait, I’ll make it worth your time.”

                You would snort, if you were using your vox box. You’ve waited and waited and _waited_. But you don’t touch yourself, and Jazz rewards you with another finger.

                Nnnh, that’s, that’s good. It’s not _enough_ , not yet, but like this you can feel feel Jazz hitting your internal nodes, slow but steady, over and over. His fingers are sliding against you, you’re too wet to really feel the friction, but you can feel the very beginnings of the _stretch_. It’s better, it’s close, but you can tell it won’t be _enough_ , and you don’t know what he’ll ask from you before he gives you any more.

                Again, you fight to turn to him, to kiss him, _something_ , but his fingers are still hooked in your mouth. He holds you steady no matter how you struggle, but when you subside, he stretches forward to kiss you on the corner of your mouth.

                And he adds a finger to your valve. That’s, _ahhh_ —You can definitely feel the stretch now, you’re so full and, and _perfect_. You can hear his fingers moving in and out of you now. His hand sometimes brushes against your node—as steady as his rhythm is, this _isn’t_ , this is erratic and tantalizing and _frustrating._ You want so badly to touch yourself—but no, he asked, he said not to. You can manage. You _can_.

                You do your best to focus on the sensation, lose yourself in the way he fills you, stretches you, the way his hand moves against you. You’re close, you’re _so close_ and you can’t quite finish. You twist as much as you can, try to press yourself against him where he holds you. He breaks his rhythm then, and you stumble, but before you can figure out what’s gone wrong, he presses his palm down against your valve, steady pressure right against your node, and you grind your hips down against him, and the overload takes you.

                You’re not in much state to—to anything, at first. The last aftershocks are gone, but you’re still shivering where you sit against Jazz. You’re blind and you can’t remember why. But Jazz’s hands are on you, soothing and certain. He moves away. Stands, you think? But then he’s collecting you up against him, bringing you to your feet, supporting you when your legs won’t hold your weight. You follow where he leads you. A berth—that makes sense. You’re still shivering when he helps you down onto the berth, then follows you, laying down across from you and gathering you up against him.

                It isn’t that long before you remember that oh, yes. _You_ deactivated your optics. It doesn’t even take much longer after _that_ to remember your vox box. Once your voice is back online, you open your mouth to talk, but stop when you realize you don’t have a clue what to say. Your hand is resting on Jazz’s chest, so you just. Study your fingers instead. That’s definitely the only thing you ever intended to be doing.

                And Jazz doesn’t press the issue. He’s smiling, but he only asks, “Everything good?”

                You manage, “Everything is fine.”

                He shifts forward, towards you, and you don’t—is he meaning to begin again? Or—But he only takes your chin and tilts your head up so he can kiss you, slow and sweet. He breaks the kiss, but stays where he is, barely any distance between you and him.

                When you reach up to take his hand in yours, he lets you. You hesitate for a moment, then stretch forward to close that small distance and kiss him back. You can feel his smile breaking through the kiss. When you pull back, you look at him right in the optics for a moment, before you have to look away. Instead, you turn your optics down to where you hold his hand, past that to where your legs have tangled with his on the berth. Then you look back up at Jazz, you meet his optics, and you smile for him.


	22. Megatron/Rodimus: Piercings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/142800654996/relationship-megatronrodimus-rating-e-words)

                Rodimus has some new secret he’s keeping from you. Though for the sake of clarity, when you say that _Rodimus_ has a secret, you mean that Rodimus has a very poorly-kept secret that he doesn’t want to be a secret at all. He’s been spending the day dropping increasingly overt hints, trying to tempt you to guess what it could possibly be. You can’t resist teasing him, refusing to let him draw you in, pretending complete uncomprehending disinterest even when he grows so blatant you worry it will stretch even the limits of his belief to imagine that you still haven’t noticed.

                You remain carefully oblivious as you walk through the ship’s halls, and Rodimus has worked himself into the beginnings of a fine sulk by the time you reach his quarters. As soon as the door shuts behind you, you take him gently, press him to the wall, and tip his chin up so you can kiss him deep and slow. You could kiss him like this all the way through to your next shift, but, well. He does have a secret that he wants to tell you, and even if it was against his will, he has been _very_ patient.

                So you break the kiss, cup his cheek as he smiles up at you, and indulge in one slow moment to just _look_ at him. Finally you say, “Well?”

                It takes him a few seconds to catch up. “Oh. _Oh_ —”

                He seizes your hand, pulling you along behind him to his berth. He sits himself down, parts his legs for you, gives you a _look_ —you do your best not to show how it makes your spark flutter—and reaches down to open his panel.

                His fingers frame his valve as he sits and waits, grinning and watching you for your reaction. It takes you a moment to realize—you don’t even know what you’re looking for—but then you see it. A tiny, delicate hoop, placed right through his node.

                “ _Rodimus_.”

                He wilts. “You don’t like it.”

                You go to your knees in front of him, place your hands on his thighs to part them the smallest distance further. “I didn’t say that.”

                “So you _do_ like it,” he laughs.

                You can’t take your eyes from it, honestly. You’re almost afraid to touch, but, “May I?”

                “ _Please_.”

                You have to smile at that, press a kiss to his thigh before you proceed. Even then, you hardly know what to do. You _shouldn’t_ be shocked by anything Rodimus does at this point, and yet here you are. You can’t imagine how this must have hurt. In the end, you settle for a single finger, as gentle and soft as you know how to be. You trace around his node, once, twice, before you finally nerve yourself into it and carefully lift the ring.

                “ _Nnh_ —”

                You freeze. “Hurts?”

                He shakes his head. “Just—sensitive. Don’t stop?”

                You can’t refuse him anything he asks of you. You’re still slow and gentle as you can manage while you touch the ring. You can feel the shiver that runs through his legs as it moves against him. His valve is already beginning to dip lubricant onto the berth, and your valve already aches for his touch. You set your own needs aside—not now, not when he’s like his, so sweet and willing beneath you—And finally you drop the ring and run one careful finger across his node.

                It surprises another shocked little noise out of him. Before you can convince yourself out of it, you bend your head to him. When you press your lips to his node in a kiss, he throws his legs over your shoulders and clutches at your helmet, pulling you tight against him. As much as you’d love to draw this out long and slow until he’s sobbing and desperate, it’s difficult when he’s so sensitive, so _responsive_. You war with yourself for a moment, but—you have an effective eternity with him to look forward to, there’s so much future where you’re free to act out every fantasy he inspires in you. There can’t be any harm in indulging yourself here and now.

                So you press your glossa against his node once, a broad flat stroke, before you pull back to tease at the ring. You lift it on your glossa, turn it against him, shift it from side to side. You savor the pleading noises Rodimus makes, the way he cries your name when he begs you for _more_. You might not be taking the time to slowly, slowly tease him out to overload the way you’d love to, but he’s still just as lovely when you take him this way, hard and fast. When you wrap your lips around his node and _suck_ , he sobs your name over and over as he shakes through his overload.

                When you finally pull away, your first concern is for the piercing. You look it over as thoroughly as you can, unable to shake the sudden, gripping terror that you might have _damaged_ him. But he’s fine. When you lift the ring to, to just _be certain_ , he shudders against you, and makes another pleased, wanting noise. You do have to smile at that. You’ve never known anyone quite so insatiable as Rodimus.

                After you’ve finally satisfied yourself that he is unhurt, you unhook his legs from your shoulders, unfasten his hands from your helmet, and stand. You’re only looking to stretch your legs, but you’ve barely broken contact with him before Rodimus is grabbing for your hand again. You don’t bother to conceal your smile as you let him pull you down onto the berth, as he settles you behind him so that you can put your arms around him and hold him close to your chest.

                You’re prepared to enjoy the closeness and silence, but you’re well aware of who is sharing this berth with you. You silently place bets with yourself on how long it will be before Rodimus can’t resist any longer—and there it is. He wriggles back against you, so that his aft presses against your panel. You can’t resist teasing him again, seeing how long you can remain oblivious to his hints before he grows impatient.

                To his credit, he manages to hold out for a few minutes before he says, “So I heard that a pierced node feels _really_ great when you’ve got a spike inside you…?”

                You have to laugh. Insatiable indeed. But you can’t ignore the image of him spread wide on the berth for you, the light shining off his ring as you _fill_ him—Your spike pulses against your closed panel, and you are very, very aware of every point of contact between you and Rodimus. Still, though—“How interesting,” you say, bland and noncommittal.

                Rodimus laughs too, pushing against your arms and trying to turn to face you—while you do your best to make it as difficult as possible. He does finally manage it, settling down against you, chest to chest. He gets one of his legs between yours, letting his thigh press up against your panel. He cups your face, pulling you down towards him so he can kiss you soundly. When he breaks away, he says, “So were you ever planning to help me with that?”

                You look down him, simply drinking in the sight of him, and entirely unable able to stop yourself from smiling. “I think you may have persuaded me.”


	23. Brainstorm/Perceptor: Fucking Machines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/142930122266/relationships-brainstormperceptor-rating-m)

                Okay. So. You’ve built a thing. An _interface_ thing. An interface toy. Machine. Thing. Yeah, toy feels a little insufficient when you’ve got all sorts of parts being actuated, getting some legitimate pistoning action going on. And then, see, you’ve got these pistons and engines getting all involved with your valve, which is an awfully delicate piece of anatomy. You’ve got to test that out, be sure it’s safe. It’s only sensible. And for proper safety, you really ought to have someone else on hand, right? Makes sense?

                _Point is_ , you’ve just asked Perceptor if he wants to tag along while you test your new machine out. That’s not weird, is it? That’s probably weird. It’s _totally_ weird, but shhhhhh shhh shh, it’s okay, just play it cool, you’ve got this.

                But see, the trouble is. Hmm. He actually said yes? That wasn’t something you were expecting. Yeah, wow, you’re definitely not stressing because you thought for sure he’d say no, and now you’re off all your scripts and flying without a map. It’s fine, it’s fine! This is just a science thing that science friends do together, and you’ll test your machine out and it’ll do its machine thing and maybe Perceptor will think you’re cool and smart and interesting. So yeah, you’re definitely not stressing over that. Why would you be stressed?

                Somehow you get back into your lab with him without making a fool of yourself. You even manage to get yourself onto your desk okay, get down on hands and knees and get yourself lined up with the machine. And then? Haha, yeah, okay, you’re an idiot and an embarrassment. See, here’s the problem. Here _you_ are, on one side of the machine. Guess which side the controls are on? Here’s a hint, it’s definitely not the side you can actually reach with your own two hands.

                Head, meet desk. You can’t bring yourself to actually look up, or you might literally die of shame, but you wave a hand in the vague direction of Perceptor and your machine. “Do you think you could…?”

                Fortunately for you, Perceptor is smart. Gah, no, that sounds condescending. You mean that he takes your meaning without you having to explain any further, _thank Primus_ , or you’d probably implode from pure humiliation. He does hesitate for a moment, and you steel yourself and take a quick look back over your shoulder. He has one hand on his chin as he studies your machine and okay, he’s really, _really_ cute and you maybe want him to kiss you a little—or, um. You mean you really admire him for his intellect and respect him as a fellow scientific peer.

                He flips the power switch, and your machine starts up. Just a nice, slow, gentle cycle. Real basic, but still. Now, you may have designed this thing according to, ah, _personal preferences_ , but it fills you up just enough that you can feel the stretch. Nice range of motion, you’ll just have to be careful where you put yourself so you don’t accidentally hurt yourself, yeah, that would be bad.

                And Perceptor is watching you. His optics are on you while your machine moves against you, he’s _watching_. Okay, come on, you have to hold it together here, you are a mech of _science_. It’s hard to concentrate with the toy driving you into the berth—the desk. Focus, focus. Um. Speed, you can go faster without any safety problems for sure. That won’t be a problem. What else? Perceptor’s optics are on you, where the machine is pushing in and out of your valve, where you’re beginning to drip lubricant on the desk. He’s _watching you_.

                What are you supposed to do with this information? How are you supposed to react? You don’t have a clue, except you’re _pretty_ sure that if you make any move at all, this whole thing is going to fall apart. If you stay completely frozen and don’t react at all, that’s normal, right? That’s a normal thing that normal mechs do? Well. Frozen except for the way your machine is still driving into you, steady and relentless, and between that and—and _other_ things, you can feel your valve dripping and you’re definitely inching your way towards overload, and there isn’t anything you can do to stop it.

                Perceptor is the first one to break the silence. He clears his throat. “This is meant to be an evaluation of your machine, correct?”

                “That’s—That’s right.” _Ahahaha_ , you’re an unprofessional idiot, and this was the worst idea you’ve ever had.

                You’re definitely absolutely not lifting your head from your desk, but you can hear Perceptor taking a few slow steps. Yeah, probably best if he just leaves now, and the two of you can pretend this never happened. Maybe in a few years you’ll be able to show your face in public again.

                “Then in the interest of running some thorough, systematic tests, I think we ought to experiment with some of these other controls, don’t you?”

                Huh? You aren’t following what he’s saying, and you don’t see what he does, but you _definitely_ feel it when the toy starts vibrating against you. You feel it even more when, when—that’s definitely his hand on your aft, his thumb just against the outer lips of your valve, right next to where the toy is sliding in and out of you, and, and it’s too much, you can’t help yourself, you overload right there, your arms buckling, pressing back against the machine and against Perceptor’s hand.

                When your arms feel like they’ll support your weight again, you prop yourself up, twisting to look back over your shoulder. Perceptor is reaching for the controls, and no, “ _Wait—”_

                He pauses, looks up at you.

                It takes a couple tries before you can speak past the static, but you manage. “Still—lots of settings we haven’t tested yet. ‘S bad procedure to wait on those. Bad experimental methods.”

                Perceptor _smiles_ at you. He _smiles._ “Should I presume that you’re interested in statistical rigor too? Testing for repeatability will require a very large data pool.”

                You can’t help laughing and laughing. “I am a mech of _science_. You wouldn’t believe how many sacrifices I’ll make for the sake of the field. So many sacrifices. _All_ the sacrifices.”

                Perceptor is still smiling as he reaches for the controls again. “Then you should brace yourself, because I think we’re in for a _very_ long evening together.”


	24. Cosmos/Soundwave: Space, Scenes, And Settings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/142937822506/relationships-cosmossoundwave-rating-m-words)

          Your first step is to take a ship and quantum jump to an empty quadrant of space. Your second step is to pilot yourself further away from the nearest faint signals you can hear from distant alien ships, flying their independent paths through the galaxy. You fly until everything has gone silent. Then you take out your communicator and open the text client—you’re too far for voice or video, not without significant lag. You aren’t sure whether you’re grateful you have this much, or regretful you don't have more.

S: I’ve arrived.  
C: Oh, uh  
C: That’s good!  
C: Least I think it’s good, if that’s what you were after  
C: Is it good?  
S: It is quiet.  
C: Good quiet?  
S: I don’t know.  
S: It is… different.  
C: Kinda sounds like you’re dancing around saying it’s bad quiet  
S: Alarming, perhaps.  
S: Unsettling.

          Frightening, you don’t say. Terrifying. But you aren’t even certain whether those are accurate descriptors. This is simply so foreign to you, so completely different from everything you’ve ever experienced, that you don’t know how to set words to what you’re feeling.

C: Those do sorta sound like bad words  
C: Is the impression I’m getting  
C: I mean I could be wrong, just let me know  
C: Soundwave?  
C: You still there?  
S: I am here.

          But then what? What do you do with this? How do you react?

S: Cosmos.  
C: Yeah?  
C: I’m here  
S: Speak to me.  
S: Tell me about it.  
C: About what?  
C: Being alone?  
S: Any of it.  
S: Please.  
C: Yeah, I can do that  
C: So you know me, I kinda hate being alone cause most times I don’t get any choice in the matter  
C: Get sent out into space all by myself cause I’m the only one with the alt mode for the job  
C: Surveillance and all that  
C: But then you put me back with lots of people and sure it’s good for a while  
C: But by now I’m real used to BEING all alone and even though I like getting to have a social life for a change, I can’t do it forever  
C: You’ve gotta have some time alone with your thoughts or you start to go crazy  
C: After a couple weeks stuck on a ship with everyone else, you start getting desperate for one good shift all alone out in space  
C: You look for some excuse to get out there and turn off your comm and just be alone with your thoughts for a while  
C: I know I start to sulk if I get sent out there by myself all the time and never get to talk to anyone  
C: But I can’t just stay in and ONLY talk to people or I start losing it  
C: Can’t hear yourself think after a while  
C: Thought maybe you’d be after some alone time cause  
C: You know  
C: Everything  
C: But it sounds like you don’t like it after all  
S: It is new.  
S: Very different.  
S: I’ve never experienced anything like this.  
S: Not since I was forged.  
C: I’ve always kinda liked the way you can get out there by yourself and just clear your thoughts  
C: As long as you knew you had people to come back to, you know?  
S: I never had that option.  
C: Soundwave  
C: You know you don’t have to stay out there if you hate it, right?  
C: You can come back if you want  
S: I am fine.  
S: I would prefer that you stay with me, though.  
C: Sure thing, can do  
C: Anything in particular you want?

          You dim your optics, let your fans run a slow, soothing cycle. You can’t stop straining to _hear_ , to listen for something that _must_ be out there, just beyond your awareness.

S: Distract me.  
C: Oh, uh  
C: How?

          You allow yourself a private smile.

S: However you see fit.  
C: Well, um  
C: I know it wouldn’t exactly work with the setup like it is, for kinda obvious reasons  
C: But I wish I could be there with you right now  
C: For reasons of, you know, support stuff  
C: Cause text chat is kind of less than ideal  
C: But also it would be really interesting to be around when you can’t hear anything  
S: You don’t like that I can hear you?

          Hm. Unsurprising, really. It’s only fair for him to feel that way; it is an unavoidable downside of associating with you.

C: No, that’s not it  
C: I’m saying this wrong  
C: I wouldn’t be hanging around if I minded you being in my head  
C: See like  
C: Say maybe I want to hold your hand  
C: And surprise you  
C: There’s no way for me to ever get the drop on you, cause you’re always going to hear me coming  
C: And that’s fine!  
C: But it would also be nice if sometimes I could sneak up on you and give you a surprise hand holding experience you never expected  
C: That sort of thing  
C: So like, if I hadn’t spoiled the theoretical surprise up above  
C: I could sneak up on you and hold your hand like nobody’s business  
C: Except I can’t, cause you’re over there and I’m over here, and if I was over there with you, you’d be able to hear me coming  
C: So I guess I can only threaten to hold your hand by surprise over a chat like this.

          You catch yourself smiling again.

S: Consider me retroactively charmed and surprised that you’d make the gesture, then.  
S: Tell me.  
S: How else would you surprise me?  
C: Oh  
C: Um  
C: How far do you want me to go?  
S: As far as you’d like.  
S: But, again.  
S: Feel free to surprise me.  
C: Well, uh  
C: I think holding hands is still a good place to start  
C: I want to go nice and slow  
C: Since you can’t listen in and hear where I want things to eventually go  
C: So to start, just sitting next to each other on the berth and holding hands  
C: I guess maybe we could be having a conversation, but we don’t need to  
C: Unless you’re still not liking the quiet, then I could definitely talk  
C: And after a while things just kinda move forward  
C: My leg’s been bumping into yours sometimes, so I put a hand on your thigh  
C: And maybe you lean up against my shoulder  
C: Is that okay?  
S: This scenario is more than acceptable.  
S: What next?  
C: Um, I guess eventually I’d start touching you other places too  
C: If you know what I mean  
S: What do you want me to do?  
C: Oh, you mean, uh  
C: Physically?  
S: Yes.  
C: Um  
C: Well  
C: Would you mind bringing yourself to overload?  
C: And maybe imagining that it’s me doing it?

          You lean forward so that your head rests against the screen. You dim your optics and indulge in a brief moment to imagine that Cosmos is here, with you.

S: You will be the one doing it.  
C: Oh, ha  
C: I guess in a way, I will, huh?  
C: So okay  
C: You can touch me if you want, but I’m going to be selfish and touch you even more, since you can’t tell what I’m about to do  
S: Selfish indeed.  
C: Ha! That’s a joke, right?  
C: Anyways, that’s what I’m going to do  
C: Feel you out, piece by piece, all over  
C: I want to go over your arms and trace all your transformation seams  
C: Then I could to open your tape deck and feel you all out inside  
C: I know you’re sensitive there  
C: So maybe not knowing what I’m about to do will make it even more sensitive?  
S: A reasonable hypothesis.  
C: And  
C: Can I take your faceplate off?  
C: I know it’s not always your favorite  
C: But especially now  
C: For this  
C: I’d really, really like to see your face

          You hesitate for a moment, but you reach up to unfasten your faceplate, remove it, and set it aside.

S: You may.  
C: Aw, thanks!  
C: You have a really nice mouth, did you know that?   
S: You have expressed your appreciation of it in the past.  
C: Yeah, but  
C: That’s not why this time  
C: Cause right now you’re sitting back and letting me do all sorts of things to you  
C: You’re just relaxing and enjoying yourself  
C: And I get to see the faces you make  
S: You are certainly a demanding partner.  
C: Haha, yeah, yeah  
C: Anyways, I’d get a hand inside your tape deck like that  
C: Or no, I wouldn’t do it quite like that  
C: You can’t peek ahead, so I’d tease you, right around the edges of your deck  
C: Never quite going inside, and you’re just waiting and waiting for me to do something, but you don’t have a clue when it’s going to happen

          You drop a hand to your tape deck, slowly tracing its edges. A shiver runs through your frame, and you do your best to suppress it.

C: See, I know YOU always know when I’m gonna go for it  
C: So I’m going to hold out even longer than you think I can  
C: Think I’m about to finally stop teasing?  
C: Haha, nope!  
C: I’m up in your lap, right up against you, and I’m still just tracing around the edges of your tape deck and not touching you for real  
S: What if I asked you to?  
C: Are you asking?  
S: Not yet.  
C: Then no  
C: I’m still just touching you enough to get you spun up, not enough to give you any satisfaction  
C: Unless I’m about to get my hands inside you!  
C: You never know

          Your frame is sensitive where you’ve been touching yourself. Some part of you wonders whether you ought to give in and jump ahead to the inevitable next step, though—no. You’ll follow his script. You realize with a start that your fans have started to cycle faster, and your valve is beginning to ache between your legs.

S: I’m certain you desire more than this by now.  
S: What if I were to touch you?  
C: You can touch me if you want!  
C: But do you think that’s going to convince me to move faster?  
C: I think you might be wrong  
S: Then.  
S: What if I asked you to touch me?  
C: Are you asking?  
S: Yes.  
S: Please.  
C: Where?  
S: Anywhere.  
S: My tape deck.  
S: My valve.  
S: Wherever you want.

          There’s a pause. You’re frozen in anticipation, waiting for his words.

C: As much as I like the teasing  
C: I also really, REALLY like your valve  
C: So okay, I put a hand into the space between us  
C: Is your spike out too?

          You reach down and open your panel.

S: Yes.  
C: Awesome  
C: Okay, so I’m going to be paying attention to your valve  
C: But at this angle, I can totally give your spike some love too  
C: So my palm is against your spike, but I’ve got one finger tracing around the edges of your valve  
C: Just like with your tape deck!  
C: Am I going to ever put a finger inside you?  
C: We just don’t know

          You place your hand between your legs. You grind the heel of your hand against your spike, and only tease at your valve, just as Cosmos would.

S: How long?  
C: Until I give in?  
C: Dunno  
C: A while, I think  
C: Cause I can watch your face  
C: See how desperate you’re getting  
C: I know you like to be all in control of yourself and everything  
C: But I really like seeing what it’s like when you start to slip a little  
C: Like  
C: Not many mechs get to see that with you  
C: It’s nice

          You pause for a moment, then reach over to your onboard computer, access the cameras, and take a picture of yourself. You send it to his private channel under _heavy_ encryption, and delete the source file. He won’t see that until later. It should be a nice surprise.

S: Then what?  
C: Are you asking me to move on?  
S: No.  
S: Here, I will simply wait.  
C: Aw, you’re not giving me any clues what you want  
C: But you know what  
C: I still get to surprise you, so…  
C: I’m going to surprise you!  
C: I won't put anything in your valve at all  
C: I’m gonna get up on my knees, and I’m gonna take your spike instead!

          You’re smiling again, but you don’t want to stop. You take your spike in hand, run your fingers along it, imagine Cosmos in your lap, his hands on your shoulders, taking you in.

S: My spike?  
S: I’m devastated.  
C: Aw, you’re teasing  
C: But just you watch, it’s gonna be totally awesome.  
C: You’re always great in my valve, no matter what  
C: So, uh, I’m hoping it’s equally good from your end.  
S: I can confirm, yes.  
C: Great!  
C: And like this, I can ride you just as fast or slow as I want  
C: And the best past is that I get to watch your face the whole time  
S: How fast?  
C: How close are you?

          You take a moment, try to evaluate. The imagery, the anticipation—they’re both powerful. As disconcerting as the silence in your head is, this context, this framing, _Cosmos_ — They render it more than acceptable.

S: Close.  
C: Then I’ll ride you fast  
C: Teasing’s fun, but you know  
C: I want to make you happy  
C: And give you an overload, but, uh  
C: Mainly that first one, and hopefully the second one and the first one go together okay  
S: May I kiss you?  
C: What?  
S: Within this scenario, I would like to kiss you.  
C: Oh!  
C: Yeah, you can definitely do that  
C: I’m not going to say no  
C: What do you want from me?  
C: I’m, um, riding you hard and fast, and I’ve got one hand around the back of your neck while you kiss me, if that’s okay  
C: But is there anything else I can do for you?  
S: Just this.  
S: This is more than sufficient.  
S: Cosmos?  
C: Yeah?  
S: May I overload?  
C: Oh!   
C: Yes, do it  
C: Tell me when you’re done?

          You have to drop your second hand from your keyboard. You work your spike with one hand, tease around your valve with the other—not inside, Cosmos didn’t go inside—you dim your optics, imagine green armor plating, blue optics locked onto yours, a single hand cradling the back of your neck—It doesn’t take you long to finish at all. Your optics come back online slowly, and you stare at the transfluid spattered on your thighs for a long moment, still half-dazed. _Cosmos_ , you remember.

S: I am finished.  
S: And you?  
C: Yeah, wow  
C: Me too  
C: Wow  
S: Agreed.

          You sit back in your chair for a moment, take stock of the slight tremors still running through your frame. The silence in your head is still… unpleasant, but not nearly so pressing as before, not now, when you feel hollowed out and scorched clean, through and through. You turn back to your communicator.

S: I think I am ready to return.  
C: Yeah?  
C: Enough of that for a single trip?  
S: Yes.  
S: But I will allow that it was not an entirely unpleasant experience.  
C: Sounds fair  
C: Want me to wait up?  
S: That would be acceptable.  
C: Haha, yeah, sounds like a yes to me  
S: It will take several hours.  
C: I know!  
C: It’s fine, it’s fine, a few hours isn’t that long to wait  
S: Then I will be home soon.  
S: And Cosmos.  
S: Thank you.


	25. Optimus Prime/Prowl: Biting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/142993097576/relationship-optimus-pimeprowl-rating-m-words)

                You and Prowl… are familiar. Steadfast. You have more than four million years of friendship shared between the two of you, and you can hardly remember a time before he became one of your dearest, most trusted friends. Prowl is a constant, trustworthy and reliable, even now, when things have become… strained.

                It is understandable. However Cybertron began, you have become a society built around war, forced now to adapt to peace. You struggle. You know Prowl does too, and he is one of the few who understands what you are experiencing, you think.

                And so, it’s so easy to hold him against you like this. It’s so easy to retract your faceplate, tip up his chin, and kiss him. Just like always. You know him too well to expect him to be still and passive, and he barely hesitates before he puts his hands to your cheeks, pulling you down against him. He bites at your lips, soothing away the stinging with kisses before he bites at you again. You dim your optics and let yourself yield into him.

                Your hands roam idly over Prowl’s frame as he kisses you. It’s familiar territory, nearly as familiar to you as your own body. Even blind, you know every plate, every joint, the faint traces of every transformation seam. You trail a hand over his chest, his sides, his shoulders. When you let your fingers dip into his vents, he makes muffled noise against your mouth and breaks the kiss.

                There’s no need for you two to speak, or for you to guess what he wants. He seizes your hand and presses it between his legs, shifting his hips down, settling against your palm, before he releases you. He lifts your chin, this time, and turns his mouth to your neck. There are a quite a number of struts and cables there, and you think he is determined to bite and kiss every single one of them.

                His panel springs open against your fingers and his spike pressurizes against your hand. Before you can even become properly aware of your own needs, Prowl is already taking a hand and reaching down to your panel. It opens to his touch, and he traces once around your valve before sliding two fingers into you.

                It’s easy, comfortable, and so familiar. There aren’t any words between you, but there is no need for them. There’s only Prowl against you, his dentae on your neck, his fingers in your valve. You tease at his vents with one hand and stroke his spike with the other. With so many years between you, it’s impossible not to know the rhythms of his body, impossible not to surrender into his touch.

                You finish first, quiet, only shaking under his hands. He follows seconds after, and you feel the noise he makes against your neck more than you hear it. You remain still and silent against each other for some moments. You know you are reluctant to part and leave behind the old, safe familiarity of his touch, and you think he feels as you do.

                And yet, it must happen. He breaks away first, reaches for cloths to clean away the transfluid the two of you have left behind. He hands you a cloth, and you carefully wipe his thighs and chest clean, as he likewise assists you. After that is done, he lingers a moment longer, then rises. You let your faceplate slide closed, and nod to him. He nods back. What more do you need to say, after so long together? And he leaves to return to his own quarters.

                You lay down on your berth, prepare for recharge. Your nights have been uneasy for some time now, but at least you have this. One last constant. Whatever differences of opinion you may have, you have the history together to know you can at least trust in this, in Prowl, as a reliable point of truth. You dim your optics, still your spark, and do your best to sleep.


	26. Drift/Ratchet: Ritual (Prayer)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/143141402616/relationship-driftratchet-rating-m-words-1395>Tumblr</a>)

                Drift dawdles for so long, straddling your hips and holding himself _just_ above your spike, that—you know he’s trying to provoke you, but you can’t help yourself—that you finally snap, “I have _better_ things to do than wait around for you all day.”

                He pulls back and sits down across your thighs, and you could just groan. This is exactly what he was going for. You played right into his hands.

                “That’s an interesting way to put it.” He reaches out and takes your spike in hand, toying absently with it. You are _bound and determined_ not to react. “After all, the pursuit of any number of any number of seemingly frivolous activities take on immeasurable worth through the benefits they bring to your mind, your spark, or your entire existence, really. Don’t you think?”

                You clench your jaw. You are not going to give him the reaction he’s looking for.

                Drift brushes his thumb across the tip of your spike, and you barely manage to hold yourself still. He looks up and meets your optics. “Unless you still think this isn’t a worthwhile activity?” His smile is deceptively sweet. “You know I’d never keep you from your work, Ratch. You’re free to go.”

                You just glare at him. “I don’t know who you think you’re fooling with that act of yours. I wasn’t forged yesterday, you know.”

                He thumbs the tip of your spike again, and you can’t help shifting against him. “Are you asking for my valve?”

                Like hell you’re going to ask him nicely _now_. You grab him by the shoulder instead, pulling him up against you so you can kiss him instead. It’s not much of a kiss, not with the way he won’t stop _laughing_ against your mouth. You know you’ve as good as lost anyways, but it’s almost worth it to feel him taking your spike, lining it up with his valve, and sinking down onto you. At least with him laughing like this, he’s less likely to feel the way you can’t stop yourself from smiling.

                He does break that barely-a-kiss eventually so he can sit back on his heels, bracing himself with a hand against your chest. He rocks against you, and—not that you’d admit it out loud—but you think you’ll never be able to get enough of feeling him around you like this, warm and wet and desperate for more. You know that look on his face, you know the way the stretch takes him. But he stops. _Again_.

                He looks down at you so solemnly that anyone who didn’t know better might think he was actually serious. “You know,” he says, “There are some very appropriate litanies written on the connection between spiritual well-being and physical pleasure, and this seems like a perfect time—”

                “ _Don’t you dare_.”

                “Don’t mind me, then! I’ll just pray to myself.”

                And he does it. He actually does it. He dims his optics and sits right where he is and you can see his lips moving as he silently recites the words, and he is _actually doing this_. You’d be tempted to wait it out, except—every time you move, he shifts to keep his balance, and your spike moves in him and it’s so close, but not _enough_ , so you can’t stop moving—You’re not going to give him the reaction he’s after, not when he’s teasing like this, but it’s torment being like this, reminded every moment of everything he’s making you wait for.

                It doesn’t take long for you to be desperate for some distraction, something to hold your attention so you don’t give in—And, well. You don’t know if Drift just doesn’t know you can read lips. Or perhaps he just assumed that you wouldn’t know up from down when it comes to religion. But you can see the words he isn’t saying out loud, and this isn’t, isn’t whatever nonsense he said he was praying about. Instead, he’s silently giving thanks, over and over.

                You have to look away after a moment. But you reach up to cup his cheek with your hand. Your voice is softer than you mean it to be when you say, “Drift—”

                He jumps. “—and, and protect and guide us on our Primus-ordained path, ‘til all are one in the Allspark—”

                You don’t push it. But you just hold your hand to his cheek and look up at him. After a moment he smiles, and his hand comes up to cover yours. “You interrupted me. Looks like I’ll have to start all over—”

                Mm. Right. _No_. Without dropping your optics from his, you bring your free hand up to his valve, get your thumb on his node. He gasps and curls forward towards you. You grin. “If you think you can concentrate enough to pray, go right ahead.”

                “Not fair,” he weakly protests. “It’s, it’s not a properly reverent atmosphere.”

                “You mean like it was when you tried this nonsense the first time? I’m not an idiot, you know. And what was it you were just saying about spiritual well-being and physical pleasure?”

                He laughs and laughs, rolling his hips down against yours. “You’re learning! Inspired by my words, no doubt. I’ll make a believer of you yet.”

                You rub at his node again, and his voice is drowned out by static for a moment, but he presses on.

                “I’m learning too—it's clear we share the strongest spiritual connection in the berth, so I’ll be sure to bring up religion whenever we interface. Won’t that be wonderful?”

                You pull him down against you again. You haven’t had a proper kiss all evening with the way he’s been laughing, but at this point, you aren’t doing much better than him yourself. You break away just enough to tell him, “You are more trouble than you’re worth,” before you hold him tight against you again.

                He’s close. You’re not much better, but you are _determined_ that he’ll be the one to finish first. He sets his own pace, riding you, his rhythm more and more unsteady the closer he gets to the edge. You don’t take your hand from his node, even though there’s barely room for you to move. He grinds his hips down against you, faster and faster, until he pushes back from you, bracing against your shoulders and throwing his head back. You can see his eyes spark and hear the desperate noises he makes as the overload takes him.

                You manage to hold out. Not long, just long enough to—to watch Drift. By the time he begins to recover, you’re already losing yourself. You watch him as his optics come back online, and when he smiles down at you, that’s it, that’s the point of no return. He wraps a hand around the back of your helmet, tucks your face against the crook of his neck, and holds you close as you shake through your overload.

                It takes you a little time to get a handle on yourself again. You aren’t as young as you used to be. Drift is patient until you bring your optics online again. Of course, then the next thing out of his mouth is, “If I say another prayer, will it annoy you enough to frag me again?”

                That surprises a laugh out of you before you can help yourself. You get a hand on Drift’s cheek again and pull him down for a long, slow kiss. When you break apart, you say, “No need to worry about the prayer, you annoy me enough all on your own.”

                And that surprises a laugh out of _him_. You share another lazy, lingering kiss. He leaves his elbows braced on the floor on either side of your head, propping his head on his hands while he smiles down at you. “I wouldn’t want to cheat you, Ratch. Tell you what, I’ll annoy you all on my own _and_ say a prayer for good measure, how’s that? Praise be to Primus, great is his—”

                You pull him against you and cut the prayer off with a kiss—which you’re almost certain is what Drift was angling for in the first place. It isn’t much of a kiss with the way neither of you can stop smiling, but you know what, you’ll take it regardless. It’s perfect.


	27. Sideswipe/Sunstreaker: Held Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mild body horror and mild suicidal ideation in this story
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/143146122621/relationship-sideswipesunstreaker-characters)

                Most nights are okay, these days. But some nights you still wake up screaming.

                Sideswipe gets a handle on himself before you do. You’re still trying to tell what’s real and what’s not, your fans are spinning out of control, so fast you feel a bearing snap loose, and you think your spark is about to explode out of your chest. Please, please, _please_ , you want it just to be over, it’s fine if it ends like this as long as it _ends—_

                The first thing you’re properly aware of is Sideswipe talking to you. Just a quiet stream of words, “—so if you’re awake, just give me some kind of sign, anytime, I’m just staying right over here until I know what to do— _down_ , Bob—and so is Bob, in case you were wondering. Just let me know when you’re ready to talk, or when you start hearing me, whatever—”

                At least Sideswipe had your quarters soundproofed after the first bad nightmare. At least nobody else will be bursting in here to see what’s wrong. And see, that thought right there? That means you _are_ here, you’re, you’re not on Earth, you’re here with Sideswipe and Bob—unless that’s the part of things you’re imagining. It isn’t, you keep telling yourself that it’s _real_ , but you can _feel_ the cables in your mouth, you can feel them, _you can feel them—_ Your face is gone, your optics are gone, you can’t move your body because your body is gone too, you never got away, you’re still _there—_

                “Hey, Sunny. _Sunstreaker_. I can tell you’re there. Bob, I said _down—_ Come on, let’s try some yes-no questions. Want me over there?”

                You can’t remember how your servos work. But your voice isn’t working either. It’s a few false starts, but you think you manage to jerk your head in something like a shake.

                “I think that’s a no, then—that’s fine. Is touching the problem?”

                You try to think, try to process—you couldn’t lock it down before, but the thought of someone’s hands on you, you can’t, you _can’t_ —

                You haven’t managed to respond, and Sideswipe tries again. “I can shut up if you need me to. Is the talking okay?”

                After a few tries, you manage, “Yhh—”

                “I’m assuming that means that yes, talking is okay. Correct me if I’m wrong.” There’s a brief scrabble and clatter from his berth, but you, you can’t remember how to turn your head. Sideswipe says, “ _Bob, no—_ Sunny, does the no touching go for Bob too? I’ve got him over here, but he keeps trying to climb up. Do you want him?”

                “ _Yhhh.”_

                Sideswipe says, “ _Incoming_ —” and the next thing you know there’s a heavy, solid weight landing square in the middle of your chest.

                You still don’t remember how your arms work, but your hands come up to hold Bob steady without any input from you. There’s four bright optics floating right there in front of your face—you hadn’t even realized your own optics were online. You let your hands settle in between his spikes. He’s worried. He shouldn’t be worried. You ought to calm him down.

                He’s heavy. It almost—holds you together. It doesn’t feel anything like, like back then. And it gives you something to focus on. There’s no reason to be imagining Bob if you’re on Earth. The humans didn’t even know about him, they wouldn’t know enough to do this.

                You’ve lost track of the time, just petting Bob’s frame and letting him lie across you, pinning you to the recharge slab. But suddenly he scrabbles his way upright and hisses. You turn your head, and oh—

                It surprises you into a weak laugh. “Bob, _no_. We _like_ Sideswipe.”

                He settles down on your chest again, though he’s still giving Sideswipe a _look._

                Sideswipe asks, “Move over?”

                It’s awkward, with Bob still refusing to budge, but you manage. Sideswipe fits himself into what little space is left on your slab. It can’t be that comfortable for him, but you’re. Glad. You take one arm away from Bob and put it around him instead, so his head is on your shoulder.

                He says, “Better?”

                “…think so.”

                “Good.” He puts an arm across your waist. And after a moment longer, he throws one of his legs across yours too. “…I’m probably going to pass out again. Wake me up if you need me, okay?”

                Bob is settling down too, still right in the middle of your chest. You do your best to relax, try to center yourself. What do you need? You don’t know. It is better than it was a few minutes ago. Much better. You can tell where you are like this. With Bob and Sideswipe pinning you to the slab, you can hear their fans running, feel the hum of their motors. It’s almost enough to make you believe you’re actually here on Cybertron. So like this, with them here with you, you dim your optics, and let yourself sink back into sleep.


	28. Horri-Bull/Needlenose: Vanilla Kink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/143201923191/relationship-horri-bullneedlenose-rating-m-e)

                The Autobots are making a big push. Means things are a little tight right now. You’re short on energon, short on ammo—just short on supplies in general. Not much shelter either. People are bunking up together while high command tries to figure out whether they’re going to evacuate or reinforce you. And you mean—of course you’re splitting a tent with Horri-Bull. Who else would you stay with? Who else would _he_ stay with? It was always going to play out like that, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

                See though, here’s the thing—These high-stress times, where nobody’s sure what’s going to happen and everyone’s at least a little sure that they’re about to die, those are the times when the charge really starts to get to you. It’s nothing new. The whole army knows how it goes by now, you’ve all been fighting long enough.

                It makes you wish you weren’t staying with Horri-Bull. Because see, you know better. You really do. How many millions of years does it take for you to get a clue and understand you don’t have a chance? You think you knew that it would never work out before the war even started. But there’s still some small, _stupid_ part of you that won’t stop _hoping_. Maybe you’ll wake up tomorrow and he’ll start carrying out the four acts and sweep you off your feet and everything will be perfect forever. Ha. Right.

                Most of the time you can deal. You’ve had plenty of practice. But the times like this, when the stress has everyone overflowing with charge, when you’re living with him, _sleeping_ next to him, when at any time, you, you could—just reach out and touch him, even. Just that much. When he’s in recharge and you can’t sleep, sometimes you just. Stare at him, wishing you dared to slip your hand in his and pretend he'd actually hold your hand on purpose. Imagine moving up close against his side so you can see what it’s like to not just be sleeping together, but _sleeping together_.

                You… don’t. Partly because you know it’s a bad idea. Partly because you’re a _coward_ and you’re terrified that if he wakes up, if he _knows—_ you’ll lose what you’ve got with him right now. You think it might kill you.

                At first, you think you can wait it out. What else are you supposed to do? You’ve dealt with this for a long time. You can deal a while longer. But you have to wonder if high command even remembers that your camp exists—you’re stuck there without transport, without reinforcements. The Autobots could overrun you any day. And the charge just keeps building and building and there’s no fighting, no way to vent it. You’re not hooking up with some random ‘con just to bleed off some charge. You’re just—not. But it isn’t like you get any chance to do it yourself, not when you go everywhere, do everything, with Horri-Bull.

                That’s just the way it _is_ with you. It’s been that way since you can remember. It’s always been… a little painful. Since, you know. Since you realized. But you’re realizing now, in this tiny little camp, that you can’t find a way to get even a few minutes to yourself without him _knowing_.

                So you get desperate. And you make a bad decision. You’re lying in your tent with him. He’s in recharge. You should be in recharge. Instead you’re having fun with your favorite game of make believe. ‘What if Horri-Bull loved you back?’ Great game, lots of fun. Very rewarding. But you’re just staring at him across the tent, imagining what it would be like if things were _different_ and trying to remind yourself that no, it’s definitely a really bad idea to reach out and touch him right now.

                Now, what’s the sensible next step? Obviously it’s touching _yourself_ instead. _Obviously_.

                You barely even have to touch your panel before it opens under your fingers with a faint sound. And Horri-Bull rolls over.

                This is it, this is how you die. Of _pure, unadulterated_ _shame_. This is the end, you’ve accepted your fate, you might not want to die, but it’s definitely better than living on at this point. But Horri-Bull just glances down at—at your spike, then looks back up and says, “You too, huh?”

                You force a laugh. Does that sound weird? That probably sounds weird. “Sorry,” you manage.

                Horri-Bull shrugs. “It happens.” He groans and stretches. “I thought you musta been made of solid ice or something, I’ve been dyin’ for _days_.”

                He looks over at you again, and you can see his optics brighten. Your throat is locked too tight to speak, but— Oh no. No, no, don’t say it, please don’t, or, or please _do—_ no no no, it’ll be the worst thing, you can’t, please, please don’t—

                “Hey, what if you and I helped each other out?”

                _No_ , you should say. It’s what you would say if you were smart. If you had any sense of self-care. Instead, you open your mouth and what comes out is, “Yeah, sure.”

                You don’t know what your face is doing. You don’t know what it _should_ be doing. Not stupid, giddy glee that this is _happening_ , that it’s a dream that you never thought would come true, but it _is_ , it’s happening _right now_. And not the emotional crash that’s already starting to hit, even though you haven’t even _done_ anything yet. Because this doesn’t mean anything, it’s never going to mean anything, and you _know better_ , you shouldn’t be doing this to yourself.

                Well. You. Don’t think you end up reacting at all, exactly. Because Horri-Bull sits up and says, “We, uh. Don’t _have_ to do this, you know. Just an idea, doesn’t have to make things weird—”

                You force a laugh. “No, let’s go for it. Better than self-service, right?”

                He laughs too, big and genuine, the way he _always_ laughs. You’re a terrible person. “True! So, okay, how we wanna do this? You a valve mech or a spike mech?”

                “Either,” you lie. Stupid, that was _stupid_ , you, you shouldn’t be— Why can’t you even manage to tell the truth for two minutes at a time before you lie to him again? Well, you know the answer this time. Because what if you told him you were a valve mech and it was _wrong_ and he didn’t want you anymore? So you’re not just stupid, you’re _selfish_ and stupid. It’s—it’s fine, you can make this work, you know how to use your spike if you have to.

                But he says, “I like using my spike best, if that’s fine with you.”

                _Thank Primus_. “Sure,” you say. Your voice sounds strained. Maybe he’ll put it down to the charge getting to you? This is the worst idea, and _you’re_ the worst, because you’re still planning to go through with it.

                And you’re frozen. What a waste. Millions of years dreaming about what you’d _do_ if you could only get a chance, then the moment of truth comes and what happens? You’re completely useless. Horri-Bull makes the first move. He gets up, kneels over you. Your legs part around his, and you know you’re never going to be able to forget how perfectly he fits between them, no matter how hard you try.

                His panel is still closed. You shouldn’t. But you can’t help yourself. You reach out and touch it.

                It opens right away, his spike pressurizing against your fingers. You can _see_ his valve. You can—you can touch it. If you want to. You let your hand slide down his spike, past his node, over his valve. He makes an appreciative noise, and he’s, he’s _watching_ you and making that noise because _you’re_ touching him. This is going to be the worst thing you’ve ever done to yourself.

                But there isn’t a chance that you’d stop either. Not like this. With _him_. Especially not when he reaches down to your valve, spreads you open with one hand, and slides a finger into you.

                It surprises a helpless, “ _Nnh—”_ out of you before you can control yourself.

                Horri-Bull chuckles. “You really are wound tight, aren’t you.”

                Yes. Yes, absolutely. This is definitely just the charge getting to you, and you will blame anything and everything on that, and not on yourself. It’s definitely the charge causing it when you try to work your hips down against him, when you arch off the berth at his touch. It’s shameless and embarrassing, and you should be _better_ than that, but you can’t even bring yourself to be sorry when he adds another finger inside you.

                “Hold on,” he says, “Just wanna be sure I don’t hurt you by mistake.”

                Yeah, that’s—yeah. He’s a lot larger than you are. It’s _smart_ to wait, but the one sane corner of your brain won’t stop whispering that maybe if you let him hurt you, you’d _learn better_ , already. And the stupid, greedy corner of your brain is whispering that you don’t _care_ whether he hurts you, you’ve already waited for four million years.

                So it’s probably good that he’s taking charge. No, that’s not—You shouldn’t let yourself think about that either. You can’t _afford_ to think about Horri-Bull taking care of you when you’re weak and vulnerable, you shouldn’t think of trusting yourself to him like that, you _can’t_ wonder what would happen if, if you started carrying out the four acts right now. _He doesn’t feel that way about you_ , you should know that by now, you can’t let yourself even start thinking this way.

                But it’s hard to stop. Impossible. When he finally takes his hands away from your valve and lifts your hips, how can you _not_ think about what might happen if you told him you loved him? Right here, right now, he can’t tell you no while he’s, he’s _taking_ you like this, right?

                He can, he _would_. You’d make him miserable, putting him in a position like that. It would be cruel of you. You’re awful for even considering it. If you _really_ cared about him, you wouldn’t even think about manipulating him that way. Of course, if that was the case, you wouldn’t be _using_ him like this either. You’re terrible.

                You still let yourself cling to him as he presses forward, into you. You line up your excuses—it’s the charge getting to you, it’s because he’s big, it’s because it’s just—just been a while. And underneath that all, the truth, that it’s because it’s _Horri-Bull_ , and you’ve been desperate to hold him this way practically since the day you met him. And you can’t even remember a time when you thought you _might_ have a chance, so, so—is it really that awful of you to let yourself have just this much?

                He bends down over you, bracing himself on either side of your head. He’s so close like this. You don’t have anywhere to look but straight into his optics, and, and you _can’t—_ Before you can talk yourself out of it you throw your arms around his neck instead, press your face into his shoulder. This is a bad idea, you shouldn’t, you’re the worst, he’s going to _know—_

                He says, “You okay?”

                “Yeah,” you manage. “Just. _A lot_.”

                “Sorry, shoulda prepared you more. Need me to stop?”

                Not what you meant, but you will _absolutely_ roll with this interpretation. You shake your head against him. You don’t really trust yourself to talk right now.

                You do try to brace yourself, move against him. Not just waste your time lying here letting yourself be _done_. This is the only chance you’ll probably ever have with, with him, and even if you don’t deserve it, you should at least try to make the most of it. His cheek is pressed right against the side of your helmet, and you can hear it when he laughs. You can feel the hot air pouring out of his vents. You can feel him shift against you when he gets an arm around your back, just under your wings, and holds you against him.

                Like that, he _really_ starts to move. It’s—a little much. Maybe you should have let him prepare you more. He is a lot larger than you. But it’s not like you’d ever be able to convince yourself to let go of him now. It’s overwhelming in the best and worst way. You think you’d like it, if you could just get yourself to stop thinking about how this is the only time you’ll ever get to experience him like this.

                Eventually, you give up on trying to brace yourself and just let him _have_ you. All you can do is wrap your legs around his hips and try to hang on. You have to wonder how private this even is—Horri-Bull isn’t being quiet, and these tents have thin walls. What if everyone _hears_ and they _know_ —or at least they think there’s something going on here, and Horri-Bull hears about it and starts to wonder if maybe you actually—No. _No_. You need to stop, this is already going to be bad enough without you doing everything you can to make it worse. At least he can’t see your face like this.

                He doesn’t last long. You didn’t think he would. Neither of you was going to last very long with the way the charge has you all spun up like this. He finishes before you, and you’re frozen for a moment—it can’t be over, not yet, this is all you’ll ever have and it _can’t_ already be done—

                But it is. He presses you into the berth while the overload takes him, and—that’s it. He pulls away, and you lie there, dazed and in denial, and it _can’t_ be over yet. It can’t, _it just can’t—_ you clutch at his shoulders as he sits back on his heels. You shouldn’t, this is the worst idea in a series of many, many bad ideas, he’s going to _know_ —but you can’t help yourself.

                He just chuckles and brushes your hands off, and _no_ , you _need—_

“Don’t worry,” he says, “Haven’t forgotten about you.”

                You’re—confused. You don’t know what he means. But he doesn’t move any further away, which, which is good. And then he gets a finger on your node and you arch right off the berth. He holds you down with his other hand, pins your hips and holds you still while he works your node. And he’s just—He’s right there, _watching you._ It’s too much to stand for more than a moment, you have to turn your optics off. You still let yourself clutch at his arms though. Your hands are locked selfish and tight on his wrists, holding him against you.

                You wish it could last forever, just—here. This closeness. With him. But that was never going to happen. You can’t even manage to hold back your overload. You’re desperate for, for just a _minute_ longer, even a few seconds—but it’s—it’s just not happening. You overload, fighting it the whole way. Horri-Bull’s hands are on you, on your valve, and you can’t stop thinking that you’ll never ever feel him touch you this way again.

                All the excess charge has dissipated by the time you’re finished, but. You feel worse than you did before you started. Horri-Bull grins down at you while you pull yourself back together, stays where he is until finally you manage to prop yourself up on your elbows and take your legs from around him. You’re glad for that much, at least.

                And then he’s gone. Back to his berth. It’s not that far, not in quarters like these. Still close enough for you to reach out and touch him. If you were stupid—or, you know, more stupid than you just proved you already are.

                Horri-Bull says, “Thanks. Think I might be able to get some actual recharge now. You good?”

                You nod. You don’t think you could do words properly right now. Horri-Bull lies down, dims his optics, and. That’s that, you guess. You lie down too, because what else are you supposed to do? You watch him for a few minutes, but then you shut off your optics too. Better than being caught staring at him after—after all that.

                You don’t think you’ll be able to sleep. The charge might be gone, but your spark is wound so tight and miserable that you aren’t going to be able to slip into recharge this way. You knew what you were doing to yourself with this, you _knew,_ but hey, turns out it’s even worse than you expected. But what else were you supposed to do? What are you supposed to do _now?_ You lie there in the dark, your valve aching where Horri-Bull was inside you. You lie there, trying not to imagine what it would be like to push your berth up next to his, trying not to imagine what it would be sleep with him, tucked up against his side. You try.


	29. Cyclonus/Whirl: Historical Roleplay (more like just history)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Calling this historical _roleplay_ might be a bit of a stretch, but it's about history and identifying with historical figures, so hey, let's roll with it. I saw the post that's been going around about moral injuries and it was too perfect for these two, so I decided to take the idea and run.
> 
> Warning for mild implied suicidal ideation and a story-within-a-story about actual suicide.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/143360715436/relationship-cyclonuswhirl-rating-t-words-858)

                Given the number of times Whirl has vocally expressed his disinterest in your knowledge of music and history, it is surprising when he presents himself to you and demands that you sing him a song. When you ask why he suddenly cares, he tells you that he’d thought it was all boring and useless, until Tailgate told him what some of these songs were actually _about_. If Tailgate sent him—you have to admit your spark softens there.

                You sit, try to think back through all the music you know, try to think about what would suit Whirl best. A daunting prospect. You ask, “What sort of song?”

                He waves a vague claw as he sets himself down in Tailgate’s chair. “Something _awesome_. Maybe something about war?”

                Mm. You take a moment longer to settle on a song, and then you begin.

                And you don’t even make it through a full line before Whirl cuts you off.

                “No, no not like _that_. I can’t understand whatever it is you’re saying.”

                You look at him. What did he expect? “That’s how it’s _written_.”

                “Can’t you just… y’know.” He waves his claw again. “Translate it? Into a language real people actually speak?”

                “That would destroy the rhyme _and_ meter—not to mention the melody. It would be impossible to—”

                “ _Fine_ , fine.” He slumps back in his chair. “Fine, okay, whatever, you can just go ahead and do your thing.”

                You hesitate. “I could maybe… translate at points? After each stanza, perhaps?”

                He perks up at that, and well, now that you’ve made the offer, you can’t exactly go back on it.

                The song is a long one. And slow. The translating only slows you further. But in all honesty, you were expecting Whirl to get bored after a few kliks and leave, and that hasn’t happened. You still have difficulty reading him, but you might even venture to say that he’s rapt with attention.

                That’s good. Even if the song takes some time, you’d say it’s one of the best ones you know. It’s a tragic story. A story of an ancient warrior, grieving over the loss of his beloved spark-brother, passed over for the honors due to him following his brother’s death, determined to take vengeance on the military commanders who so slighted him. But before he could take his revenge, his optics were clouded by Liege Maximo, and when he thought he slaughtered the commanders who had treated him so dishonorably, in truth, he was only killing helpless, harmless alien animals.

                When the truth became known to him, he was unable to bear the loss of honor that had been brought upon him, and was equally unable to bear the knowledge that his companions knew the truth of what he had done. He told his comrades that he was leaving to bury his sword and put the ways of war behind him. And he did, though he had still deceived his companions. His last action was to set his blade against his chest and bury its point in his spark.

                Whirl nods along with your words all through the last stanza, even before you can provide him a translation.

                When you’re finished, he proclaims, “Nice! Definitely nice. Way better than you’d guess, just listening to the Old Cybertronian version.” He kicks his legs up on the arm of your chair—you carefully ignore him—and leans back, looking up at the ceiling. “That was part of the. The wossname. The what’s-it-called. Thing that Tailgate keeps telling me about.”

                “The Dardanian War?”

                “ _That’s_ the one. Any of the other bits as good as this?”

                “In my opinion, this is the pinnacle of the music composed on the matter, though there are a number of other songs written about the war in general.”

                “Hm. Yeah.” He lets himself slide down in his chair, still looking up at the ceiling. You’re still ignoring his feet on your chair. “Guess that makes sense.”

                Silence.

                “Hey, Cyclonus, you should sing me that song again sometime.”

                “Now?”

                He waves a claw at you. “Pff, no, I’m still absorbing the first time through. But you should do it again. Maybe,” he pauses. “Maybe teach me the words?”

                This evening began oddly, and now it has moved far beyond anything you would have ever expected. “If I may ask, why are you so enamored with this particular piece?”

                He turns his head down to you, looks you straight in the optics. “’Cause It’s true, isn’t it.”

                “Records dating back that far are unclear on—”

                “No, I mean it’s _true_.”

                You pause, watching him watch you. In many ways, you’ve wondered about what Cybertron, what _Cybertronians_ have become. Whirl in particular has done very little to convince you that he’s anything more than a willing, eternal soldier, who takes unabashed joy in killing, but... “Yes.”

                He kicks off from your chair, stands upright, and stretches. “Right, then. Good song, great stuff. Way less boring than I thought.” He looks down at you again. “Will you teach me that one?”

                You watch him for a long moment, and nod. “I will.”

                He laughs. “Awesome. And—thanks.”


	30. Cyclonus/Tailgate: Facesitting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/143504291331/relationship-cyclonustailgate-rating-m-words)

                In many ways, life is easier like this. Simpler. In a way you can’t properly articulate, it’s… _nice_ to lay down on your berth like this, let Tailgate kneel over your face, and allow your world to narrow to him and him alone.

                Like this you can dim your optics, let your hands come up to his hips to hold him steady, and worship him the way he deserves to be worshipped. Worship him the way you could never manage if you were limited to simple words.

                It’s a familiar routine by now, one you—one you would be _reluctant_ to give up. You kiss his valve as deeply as you’re able, holding him close. He shifts against you easily, his hands on your horns. You press your lips to his anterior node, trace his valve with your glossa, and do your best to store away every memory of every noise he makes.

                But then today, he breaks the routine. “So I’m thinking of getting a node piercing.”

                You almost choke.

                You can’t exactly speak with his valve still pressed against your mouth, so of course he takes the opportunity to press his point further.

                “You sound surprised! And maybe like you think I shouldn’t go for it! But consider. What if I totally went for it?” He rocks his hips just the smallest bit against you. “…You don’t need to _stop_ or anything.”

                But of course. That draws a secret smile from you. You press your glossa to his node, and try to imagine what it would be like to have—have something, a stud or a hoop, something piercing that node, do your best to imagine that texture against your mouth.

                “ _Mm_ , and, and see, when you’re doing that kind of thing—which you should _definitely_ keep doing, by the way, in case there was any question—imagine playing with a cute little ring there? Rodimus said—I mean I _heard_ when you move them side to side like, like you’re doing there, it feels better than just about anything. Or if you tug on them—really gently, I mean, but what if you did that to _me_?”

                You’re doing your best _not_ to allow yourself to be swayed by his words alone. You try to visualize the delicate anatomy of his valve, of his _node_ , doing your best to picture what sort of damage you might accidentally do to him. You’d never be able to forgive yourself. But it is… _difficult_ to concentrate when Tailgate talks on and on about all the things he wants you to do to him.

                But you’re holding out. Thinking through the issue in a calm and rational manner. Until, almost as an aside, he muses, “I think I _really_ want to ride your spike and watch you play with my piercing while I overload.”

                Your panel springs open, entirely against your will. Tailgate laughs. “That sounds like a pretty positive response to _me_.”

                You can’t help another smile. Regardless of your own— _feelings_ on the matter, you and he can discuss the factual advantages and disadvantages of his proposed plan _after_ this is over. So for the moment, you pull him up against you, and attend to his valve in earnest. It isn’t long before he’s rocking his hips against your face, pulling against your horns as you kiss him. You know his rhythms better than your own at this point, it doesn’t take long to bring him over the edge into overload.

                You support him against you until he’s done shaking, and you leave your hands on him even when he finally breaks away and shifts back to sit across your chest. You bring your optics back online just as he reaches down to trace your cheek with his hand, and you allow yourself the indulgence of leaning into that small touch.

                Tailgate lets the silence stretch on for a bare few moments, then says, “So do we ask Ratchet about this now, or do you think we ought to wait until tomorrow?”


	31. Rodimus/Ultra Magnus: Negotiation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/143518491081/relationship-rodimusultra-magnus-rating-e)

                It takes you _forever_ to get Ultra Magnus to let you at his spike. _Forever_. Approximately. You know, rounding up. Which is weird, right? Because he’s totally into you. He lets you sit in his lap for _hours,_ just kissing. He skips report writing to make out with you. He skips _scheduled inspections_ to make out with you. And you’re right there, you can feel how hot you get his fans running! Plus he had one Very Serious Conversation with you about what kind of damage his spike might do to you if you interface while he’s in his armor (pfff, you can handle it), then another about which _him_ you wanted to interface with. You said whichever one he’s most comfortable with—which seems to be while he’s in full armor—so that was that, right? Apparently not!

                And now, after you’ve been waiting for him for _twenty million years_ (approximately), he _finally_ decides that he’s ready for this. And hey, you’re a sensitive lover! You get up in his lap, waste a whole evening just making out, no worries, no officer-ing, none of that. You’d even have him in _your_ lap if there was any chance he’d fit—but let’s be real, with the armor on, that’s… not happening. And after fifty billion years (precisely) that you’ve spent _dying_ for his spike, he finally, _finally_ reaches down between the two of you and opens his panel.

                So obviously, you go right for his spike. What else are you supposed to do? _Wait_? Haha, _no_. The angle isn’t the best, but you can get a hand on him, no problem—and then… what? Uh. Spikes come in plenty of sizes and shapes, but this doesn’t feel _anything_ like you’ve ever seen before.

                Not that you can actually see what you’re feeling, because Ultra Magnus is trying to close his panel again. It’s, um. Not really working so well, not with you in the way and his spike already pressurized. And when you look up at him, he’s trying to keep his face turned away, but he looks—ashamed.

                Agh, okay. Solve one problem at a time. He’s not going to be able to close his panel like this, not without hurting himself. Right. First order of business is to snag his hands. He lets you do it, even though his hands practically swallow yours. He’s holding still, but it’s—not a _happy_ kind of still. And he’s still not meeting your optics. Your hands are full and he’s tall enough that he can pretty much dodge you if he wants to, no matter what you try to do about it. So you take the mature approach for mature mechs, and headbutt him in the chest.

                It works, though! He looks down at you, and he doesn’t look away. And, well. He looks miserable. You squeeze his hands. “What’s wrong?”

                He does turn his head then, but he answers, “I’d prefer to—not use my spike. All things considered.”

                “You sure? I mean, we can totally not-use it if you want. But you seemed like you were having a good time before, and I sure was enjoying myself. Plus if you want to close your panel again, you need to wait for the charge to dissipate, which will be… a while.”

                He groans and slumps forward against you. He’s still holding your hands, though.

                “Um, Magnus? Mags?”

                No answer.

                “Look, if you want, I’ll help you out with your spike, and then we can totally just. You know. Never speak of it again. The mystery spike. The spike that will never be mentioned. The forbidden spike. I could ask Chromedome to wipe my memory, but I think Rewind might literally murder me—”

                Aw, that gets you a tiny hint of smile from him!

                He says, “It’s… embarrassing.”

                You grin. “Embarrassing? I’m a pro at embarrassing! Have you ever seen me do my thing? For every incredible success, I’m totally counting on that memory to overwrite a pile of humiliating failures in the eyes of my fans. Okay, not many failures, I’m _pretty_ spectacular, but you see what I’m getting at.”

                And there it is! Proper smile: achieved. You win at Ultra Magnus-ing. That’s a verb now.

                You shift backwards a little in his lap. You still haven’t even _seen_ what it is about his spike that’s got him so nervous. “I’m gonna go for it now, okay? I promise not to make it weird.”

                He looks a little less happy at that, but he drops your hand. And—okay, wow. When you reach down and get a grip on his spike you can still feel that same unusual… texture? Shape? But when you lift it up, lean back to get a good look at it. Ohhh. _Oh_.

                Ultra Magnus’s spike is pierced. But that’s not doing justice to it. There are piercings, _many_ piercings, running all up the underside of his spike. You—wow. You like to think that you’ve seen some things, in your time, but you honestly never had a clue you could fit so much jewelry into a single spike.

                You’re surprised out of staring when he tries to brush your hand away. When you look up at him, he’s got his head turned away again. “I did tell you it was embarrassing.”

                “Hey, no, cut that out.” You shake your other hand out of his so that you can reach up and turn him back towards you. “Who said embarrassing? How about _awesome_? How about _incredible_?”

                He doesn’t look convinced. “You don’t need to force yourself.”

                “Trust me, I’m not that good of an actor.” You look down again, run your thumb along his spike. You can just barely feel the barbells there, under the surface. “When? _How_? I never would have guessed, this is _amazing_! Did this come with the armor or did you do it yourself? What about your other yous? I mean, I’m assuming this isn’t the spike you were forged with, and it’s not, like, poking through a hole in the armor? A hole in both sets of armors? Because once we get down to the irreducible you, this thing is like the size of your _leg_ —”

                Ultra Magnus sighs. “I did this. Not just to the armor to—To all my spikes. My personal armor’s. And my own.”

                “ _Wow_. Why? I mean, I’m not arguing, this is just seriously hardcore, I never would have seen it coming.”

                He still doesn’t look all that happy, but you just can’t stop exploring his spike with your fingers. And you haven’t missed the way his valve is starting to drip transfluid as you play with him. “Call it—optimism. When I was given the armor. I thought it was a chance for a new start. A new life. A time for _changes_.” He looks away again. “However, I was still… myself. You’ve seen how well I do with other mechs. I acquired the mods, and reality asserted itself. They’ve never been used, and you may imagine I have some regrets.”

                “Hey, whoa, you just needed the right opportunity, am I right? Getting to use them now, aren’t you?”

                “Rodimus—”

                “No, _seriously._ Mags, you would not believe how jealous I am right now.” You can’t stop staring at his spike while you play with the piercings. There’s so many, and knowing _him_ , you’re sure they’re placed with mathematical precision. “This is the best idea I never got to have first, but you can totally make it up to me by fragging me through the berth instead, okay?”

                He looks skeptical. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

                Gah. As much as you don’t want to admit it, he’s… dammit, he’s probably right. You were maybe a _little_ overambitious in estimating what your valve can handle, and if you injure yourself now it’ll be _ages_ before he’s willing to frag you again. Maybe if he took off the outer armor…? But that’s gotta be for another time, you promised him he could be in the Magnus armor tonight.

                So you grin up at him, take his spike in hand, and say, “You have to promise you’ll do it soon, then. For now, I’m going to have some _fun_.”

                And this is fun! Just a different flavor of fun. You are going to get _real_ close and personal with his spike, check out the best secret that nobody else on the whole ship knows. He tries to protest once or twice that you don’t need to feel obligated—but there’s no force behind it, and you can hear the way his fans spin up when you begin to play with his piercings.

                Now, to be clear, there are a _lot_ of piercings, so there is a lot of playing with them to be done. You run your thumb down his spike, and you—Yeah, you aren’t just feeing the barbells there inside his spike, but you can feel them catch against your thumb, a tiny little catch-and-release, over and over. Ultra Magnus curls forward towards you, before he catches himself. You have to wonder whether he self-serviced with his spike, whether he ever played with the piercings himself, or if you’re the first mech _ever_ to give them the attention they deserve.

                And they’re plenty interesting as a whole, but you just have to check them out on an individual basis too. Every single one of them? Every single one of them. Like this, you can push them back and forth, using that tiny little bit of give they have against his spike. You can pull them—gently!—and hear the noises Ultra Magnus makes. And you can roll them, turn them _inside_ him. Everyone who never played with his spike this way has been missing out, and you’re selfishly glad that _you’re_ the first mech to ever get a chance to see him like this.

                Eventually, he slides a hand between your legs. He’s got one hand supporting your back, one under your aft, pressed against your valve. You didn’t even realize how dripping wet you were until he touched you, but then you’re painfully conscious that your valve is _aching_ for him. You’re not getting fragged tonight, not with his spike, but this is still Magnus, still your valve, so it’s pretty much the next best thing.

                So you rock against his hand while you play with his spike. It’s a good combination. He keeps you distracted enough that you’re having trouble keeping any kind of rhythm—but it’s fine, there’s so much _touching_ you want to do, every kind of touching, that you don’t mind that it takes you longer to build him up to the point of overload. It’s the barbells that do the trick, finally, you can’t take your eyes off the way you can _see_ them shift in his spike, the way they catch against your fingers and snap back into place, the way his transfluid drips down his spike, over and around his piercings.

                It’s a quiet overload. It gives you the chance to sit there and watch him, really take it in. It’s… different, seeing his face that open. His optics flickering out, his voice drowned out by static, his hand tight around your back. Even after the overload’s done, he slumps forward against you, his fans still roaring. You can still feel him shuddering.

                His hand is still between your legs, but… yeah, he’s not in much position to deal with that. You slide a couple fingers up your valve, just lazily work them in and out of yourself while you watch him. It’s not hard to finish that way. He’s just starting to come back to himself, he looks up, his optics meet yours, and—there you go. You bite your lip, doing your best to hold his gaze while you shake through your overload.

                By the time you’re done, his spike is already retracting. You watch the piercings go with a little pang of regret, but hey, with any luck you’ll have the opportunity to do more with them soon. And you have _three separate pierced spikes to work with_. This is a good day. This is a _very_ good day.

                Ultra Magnus is still watching you, and he doesn’t look nearly as excited as you are. But! He doesn’t look unhappy either, which is a step up from before. He looks… nervous, maybe? You can work with nervous. You get up on your knees, stretch up far enough to kiss him, and say, “I’m very, very hurt that you didn’t tell me you had a spike like that the day I met you. Just think of all the fragging we’ve missed out on! I think you’ll have to make it up to me with extra fragging for the rest of forever.”

                He smiles. Just a little, but it’s there! “Considering what I’ve come to understand of your appetites and the baseline level of interface you’ll desire, I’m uncertain that I’ll be able to _provide_ enough interface for you to consider it ‘extra.’”

                You laugh. “Maybe! But you never know, you could try fragging me as much as you can, and maybe once we figure out my definition of ‘enough,’ we’ll be able to lock down something for ‘extra.’” You give him your best, _best_ charming smile. “For me?”

                His arms settle around you, nice and secure. _And_ he gives you another big, genuine smile. “For you, then.”


	32. Cyclonus/Tailgate/Whirl: Nippleplay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/143570337386/relationship-cyclonustailgatewhirl-rating-t)

                You still have the needles Getaway gave you. Not that you want them... you don’t think? Maybe? No? You don’t know. Things are _complicated_.

                Okay, for one, they’ve definitely got some bad memories associated with them. Definitely not going to argue there. But those bad memories led to some—some really great developments that you _never_ would have seen coming, especially not after the way Getaway set you up, and isn’t it worth remembering how all that began? Plus you’re still not sure how valuable the needles are. Sure, they weren’t loaded, like Getaway told you. But you don’t know if they _could_ be. And if they can actually work, they’re worth a lot of money. You did talk to Rewind, once, about maybe seeing if you’d be any good as a mnemosurgeon, but he pulled you away to his room and had a long private conversation about the long-term effects of mnemosurgery on the surgeon. He swore you to secrecy, but… yeah, you’re not sure if you can really stomach giving the needles to someone who might actually use them after that.

                Plus, there’s a tiny (not actually very tiny) part of you that’s still completely humiliated by how Getaway used you, and you can’t shake the fear that if you tried to throw the needles away, someone would see and they’d— _know_. Which is dumb, everyone already knows everything, but. But still.

                You kind of think that if you could just find something—something _good_ to do with them. Write over the past with something positive, right? That’s why you asked Rewind about the mnemosurgery, but—yeah, that’s probably not for the best. But what else are they good for? And you can’t stop thinking about them you just keep going back and back to the needles and what you almost did and what you could maybe do _instead_.

                And okay. So. You wouldn’t say you’ve been _eavesdropping_ or anything, but you hear rumors. About piercings. Rodimus isn’t exactly _quiet_ about some of the body mods he’d like to get is what you’re saying. And when you bring it up to Rewind, and ask if that’s _really_ a thing that mechs do, he points you down at his hips. You never noticed before, because it’s just two little studs that blend right into his plating, but he’s got one tiny little piercing right over each hip. But see, that’s not even the most interesting thing, because he mentions that _Chromedome_ did them for him, and—oh. _Oh_.

                Now, you’re not dumb. You go ask Chromedome about it before you do anything. He’s surprised, sure, but he gives you a couple pointers. He does try to tell you that you could probably get Velocity or Ratchet to take care of things for you instead of doing it on your own, but… This is something _you_ want to do for _yourself_. He gives you a couple extra hints for self-piercing after that. You do try asing if you can see his jewelry, but he laughs and tells you that those are for Rewind’s optics only. _Ohhh_. You tuck _that_ idea away for later consideration. It was one thing when Rodimus was talking about piercings he’d maybe possibly eventually get. Someday. But this is a different thing altogether. _Wow_.

                Anyways! You finally have a use for your needles, and it’s something you _want_ and it’s something that makes you _happy_. You don’t tell anyone about it, which is probably a little stupid. But this is _your thing, for you_ , and you’re going to get it done. And you’re careful! You choose your jewelry carefully, and wait for it to be delivered via the subspace portal before you try anything. You set yourself up with a nice mirror and mark the spots you want to pierce and make sure you’ve got a good handle on how the needles feel when you’re wearing them.

                And then you go for it. Nothing too extreme. Just two little studs, right at the bottom corners of your chest plate. The first one isn’t bad—hurts a little, not as much as you were afraid of. You’re leaking a little energon, but even by the time you pick up the stud and slide it into place, it’s mostly stopped. You do get a little nervous on the second piercing—just because you want this to be symmetrical, you want it to be _perfect_. The angle is different like this, and the needles are only designed to fit your right hand. But you were careful, you marked the spots and quadruple-checked them in the mirror, and before you can scare yourself out of it, you do the second piercing.

                And you know what? Just looking at yourself now in the mirror? You feel _really_ good about this. They look good. _You_ look good. The piercings are nice and symmetrical, and the gold looks really nice against your plating. Nothing _too_ flashy, but you’re glad it doesn’t just… blend in either. And after all that, you’re too excited to keep this quiet. You clean off your chest, and you head out to show them off.

                Not show them off to _everybody_. That’s not really your thing. You are hoping that people, you know. _Notice_. And that can happen as it happens. But there are two mechs where you definitely, _definitely_ want to see their first reactions.

                They’re together, which helps. You head to your hab suite hoping to just catch Cyclonus, but Whirl is there too, sprawled out across your recharge slab fiddling with something tiny and mechanical. Cyclonus looks up first, and he’s always been observant. He notices right away. And _pff_ , okay. You’re afraid for a moment he might be about to keel over. Are piercings a… _new_ thing? You should have asked Rewind. But you kind of think they might be a new thing. You’ve never seen Cyclonus look quite so scandalized and you’ve _never_ been this pleased with yourself. This is better than you could have possibly hoped for.

                And Whirl’s reaction doesn’t disappoint either! He isn’t as fast on the uptake. But he notices Cyclonus’s reaction, and that gets his attention. You climb up on the berth and into his lap. Not to show your piercings off, but… you want to show your piercings off. He definitely sees them when they’re right there in front of his face like this, and _ha_ , yes, you’ve defeated the tiny mechanical mystery object in the battle for Whirl’s affections because his attention is entirely on you right now.

                He just looks, at first. For a while. You’re not arguing! It’s nice, feeling, y’know. _Admired_. And it gives Cyclonus a chance to pull himself back together. You like surprising him, but he likes being in control of himself, so it’s only fair to give him a chance to recover. And Whirl finally reaches up with one claw to poke at your left piercing.

                It’s—tender? Not painful, but _sensitive_. You don’t know if that will fade with time, but. Hm. You kind of hope it doesn’t. There’s a tiny bit of give, side to side, when Whirl pushes at the piercing. And _that’s_ really something, feeling it shift _inside_ you. It’s more intimate than you expected. If that makes sense. You can already feel your frame starting to heat up, with his attention and claws on you like this. You had high hopes for these piercings, but this is working out even better than you’d hoped.

                Whirl pulls back, which is—kind of a shame. You weren’t done yet. But it’s only so he can call, “ _Hey_ , Cyclonus, get over here. I don’t have the manual dexterity to do this right, I need someone with hands to boss around.”

                You’re kind of expecting Cyclonus to push back against something like that, but nope. He comes right on over. He’s still embarrassed, for sure. Whirl settles you down on the berth beside him, one arm still around you, his head craning around to look at your piercings. And Cyclonus kneels on the floor in front of you.

                “You don’t have to,” you tell him.

                He smiles up at you, and your spark just about melts.

                Whirl hooks a leg over Cyclonus’s shoulder, pulling him up close against the two of you. His arm is still around you, holding you tight against his side. You can’t help a little shiver when Cyclonus lifts his hands towards your chest, hesitates, and rests them on your thighs.

                Whirl leans the side of his head against yours for a moment, the two of you just watching Cyclonus. And even without a mouth, you can hear the grin in Whirl’s voice when he breaks the silence. “Okay now. From this point out, you’re going to listen close, and you’re going to do _exactly_ what I say.”


	33. Starscream/Wheeljack: Sensation Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/143621570741/relationship-starscreamwheeljack-rating-m)

                You’re… nervous about the piercings. _Clearly_. It’s only sensible to be nervous. Ten years ago, _one_ year ago, even considering this would have been as good as asking for someone to just scrap you already. You aren’t convinced that isn’t still the case. But times are—changing. Between the neutral Cybertronians, increasing numbers of colonists, and the rest of you doing a poor job of trying to adjust to peace, times are certainly changing.

                And yet, here you are. This is a mistake. You’re almost positive this is a mistake. You ought to leave. If it was anyone else, you _would_ leave. But this—this is Wheeljack. If there’s anyone on this planet you can trust, any single person, anyone who trusts and respects _you_ … it’s him. You can trust him. You think he knows that. You _hope_ he knows that. Your spark still feels like it’s about to explode out of your chest, and you can’t stop settling and resettling your wings, no matter how you try to hold still. And you still haven’t even _done_ anything yet.

                Nerving yourself into the piercings in the first place was bad enough. And Wheeljack was the only person you could trust then, too. He’s still the only person who knows they’re there. Two rows of studs, one down each of your thighs, every piercing small and red and nearly flush with your frame. You’d hardly be able to spot them if you didn’t already know they were there. Wheeljack did those for you, when you asked him to. Sometimes, when the stress begins to get to you, you catch yourself running your fingers slowly along your legs, feeling the way your fingers catch on each piercing along the way.

                Now this—this is something different altogether. If you were reluctant to trust anyone enough to simply give you the piercings, well. There isn’t another mech in the universe you’d trust with this. Wheeljack didn’t think you were serious when you suggested this. And honestly, you don’t blame him. You’ve been second-guessing yourself since you sat down. You’re more than half convinced that you ought to run and never speak of this again. But you sit here, watching him slowly swap out each of the barbells in your legs with a small sturdy hoop, one piercing at a time, and you can’t take your optics from him.

                It’s… beautiful, in a way. Seeing the gold of the hoops stand out against your legs like this, especially since your normal jewelry is designed for subtlety above all else. But that isn’t enough to calm you. You have the chain that Wheeljack will use on you in your hands, and you keep turning and turning it as he works. Your spark twists when you realize just how few piercings he has to go, and your wings flutter and resettle before you can steady yourself.

                Wheeljack looks up as he finishes the last hoop, stands and stretches. You freeze—no, you can’t act like that, you need to—you _asked_ for this, you need to do this right. You wordlessly hold out the chain, but he ignores it and reaches for your face instead. He… _oh,_ he takes your chin and turns your face up to him. Your neck cables are stretched bare and vulnerable, and even if he doesn’t know what that means, _you_ do.

                He looks at you for a long moment and asks, “You sure about this?”

                You don’t quite trust your voice, but you nod.

                “Really sure? Definitely sure? Just because you suggested this doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to _stop_ it, you know that, right?”

                “I’m sure,” you manage.

                This time when you hold the chain out to him, he takes it. He kneels in front of you again, and begins lacing the chain through your piercings, one ring at a time. You can’t help shivering at the way the feeling of metal against metal echoes down into your legs. You can’t help shivering at the thought that you’re truly helpless now, that there isn’t any escape.

                You don’t need an escape, you _don’t_. This is _Wheeljack_. You still can’t stop yourself from thinking that if the chain is like _that_ , could you transform and fly if you need to? It’s laced through _this_ many rings, and if you got up and ran, would you break the chain or tear the piercings out of your legs?

                And Wheeljack notices. He—doesn’t try to undo the lacing he’s already done, and you’re glad. And he doesn’t try to make you meet his optics, and you don’t have the words for how grateful you are. But he pauses, drops the chain, runs his hands up and down your legs, fiddles with the piercings, arranging the rings so they all lie symmetrically against your thighs. Eventually, you manage to stop shivering. He drops his hand from your lap to give your hand a reassuring squeeze before he goes back to the chain.

                You manage to distract yourself by watching him work. Seeing the rings and chain all come together—it’s undeniably spectacular. You’re proud of yourself, and perhaps the _slightest_ bit smug that you’ve never seen another mech with piercings like _this_. The lock that goes with the chain is sitting on the berth beside you, and as Wheeljack approaches your knees, you pick it up, turn it over and over in your hands, while you watch him work.

                But when the time comes to hand it to him, you freeze up. He has to reach up and take it—so gently—from your hands. You’re watching him, you know exactly when it’s coming. But you still can’t help jumping at the click as the lock slides shut. Both of you just sit there looking at his work for a minute. The chain goes back and forth between the rows of piercings, holding your legs together. There’s perhaps a little give—not much. And then, at the very bottom edge, the lock. You don’t know the combination. Only Wheeljack does. You asked for that too. You aren’t sure anymore that you want things that way, that you want any of this, but you asked for it.

                You’re shaken out of your reverie when Wheeljack stands again. This time he just sits down beside you on the berth, puts an arm around you. That’s—reassuring. It _is_. You aren’t sure what it’s reassuring you _of_ , but. Still. He’s watching you, but you don’t look over at him. You aren’t sure what he’ll read off your face.

                You aren’t actually sure of how long you two sit like that. It’s almost like the time just disappears, except for the way you feel like you’ve been sitting here with him forever. You’re drawn tight, waiting for him to—something. You don’t know what, but _something_. And he doesn’t _anything_ , either, that’s almost the worst part of it. He’s waiting for you to make the first move, you realize, but even once you catch on, you don’t know what you’re supposed to do. You don’t know what you _want_ to do.

                You suppose—you can kiss him. That’s nice and safe and familiar, and maybe if you do something, he’ll finally decide to make a move. But when you turn to kiss him, _oh_. That’s when you shift your balance and the chain goes tugging against all the rings in your legs. It’s not exactly pleasure, but it’s not quite _pain_ , and all of a sudden, you’re incredibly, _incredibly_ conscious of each and every one of your piercings.

                It is exciting. Even better than you’d hoped. And now you’re frozen, because, well. You don’t know how you’re actually supposed to _move_ like this. Legs together, move from the waist. That should work well in theory, but every time you shift at all, the piercings tug at your thighs, and. You aren’t actually sure whether it _is_ possible to move yourself like this.

                Wheeljack solves that problem for you. He catches your legs together, and swings them up and around and lays them across his lap. That does leave you a little off-balance, but oh, would you look at that convenient excuse to drape yourself all over him—you’re only trying to stay upright, _clearly_. For, ah. A given value of drape, it turns out. Even if he’s supporting your legs and holding you steady, trying to move around at _all_ jostles the chain and pulls at your rings. Fortunately, he solves that problem too, even before you’ve started to realize it’s much of a problem. He’s got one arm around your back and one across your legs, holding you steady. You’ve got _your_ arms around his neck and have him at your mercy, and everything is perfect.

                Kissing with you and Wheeljack is a bit of a one-sided affair, given the uneven distribution of mouths between the two of you. But it works out just fine, because while all you have to do is hang off him and kiss him for ages and ages and ages, he gets to entertain himself with his hands instead. Basically, it’s the perfect excuse for you to get his hands all over your frame. The _perfect_ excuse.

                So all you have to worry about is kissing every tiniest piece of his face and finials, tracing the grooves in his faceplate with your glossa, all that—easy enough. And you can just lie there and lose yourself in the sensation of his hands all up and down your chassis, pressing along your transformation seams, outlining your plates, dipping his fingers into your vents. You can admit—to yourself at least—that you’re sometimes tempted to get upgrades to your frame just so you have more excuses to have him learn and relearn your body, over and over.

                Today, though—His hands are still all over you. But he keeps going back to your legs. To your _thighs_ , to the chain and the rings and every sensitive, tender point where your frame is pierced. The first time you feel his hands there, you have to smother a burst of fear. Any ‘con worth his metal would exploit that, fast as anything. Get a handful of chain, let you know just how badly they’re able to hurt you, and then… take whatever they wanted. Hell, you’d expect you wouldn’t get nicer treatment from most Autobots either. There’s a moment where you forget where you are, where your spark lurches with fear, where you’re trying to figure out how you can _run_ before the present asserts itself again.

                Because you’re with Wheeljack. And even from the first touch, he’s gentle, _unbearably_ gentle. There’s a few moments where you aren’t even certain whether you’re feeling his hands or just imagining it, that’s how careful he is with you. Once he’s seen he isn’t hurting you, once you begin to relax into his touch again, he’s less delicate. Still gentle, but he presses down on the chain where it crosses over itself, pulls at tiny little segments to jostle a single ring at a time. His optics are intent on your face the whole time, just—watching the way you react to his touch. To him.

                It’s difficult to keep yourself still. Every time he moves his hand, your hips shift, chasing that contact. It sends the chain tugging your piercings, sometimes gently, sometimes with a sharp yank that edges on pain. When that happens, Wheeljack holds you steady, leans his forehead against yours while you bite your lip, soothes away the ache, and begins touching you again. His other hand is mostly occupied with supporting you against him, but he’s still able to trace along the bases of your wings, teasing at them even while he pulls carefully on the chain between your legs.

                You still can’t help thinking about how helpless, how _vulnerable_ you are like this. If anyone wanted to—do anything right now, you couldn’t stop them. Kill you, hurt you, frag you, you wouldn’t be able to stop them. Not without shredding your legs. You shouldn’t be comfortable like this. You shouldn’t be enjoying yourself. But it’s _Wheeljack_.

                And you… surrender. You give up on the kissing eventually, in favor of just clinging to him and letting yourself drown in sensation. You dim your optics, press your face against his neck and lose yourself in the relentless tug and pull of your piercings.

                It’s difficult to hold yourself still at all now. Not just an issue of balance, but—an issue of… _anatomy_. Really, it was bound to happen sooner or later. It’s no surprise, and you know _you’re_ certainly looking forward to the evening taking this turn together. What you hadn’t anticipated was the difficulty your piercings would pose. Normally, this position with Wheeljack would be ideal. All you have to do is spread your legs and lie there and let him finger you all the way to overload. But yes, you see that? About spreading your legs? That does pose a _slight_ problem at the moment.

                There are solutions, you’re sure. There are probably a number of solutions. It’s too bad it’s difficult to think of any of them when you’re, ah, _distracted_ like this. Your valve is aching, and you can feel it beginning to drip behind your panel. But Wheeljack can’t _get_ at your valve like this—but you want him to—but he _can’t_. You’re trying to think of the best way to deal with this, you really are, but every time Wheeljack tugs at the chain tying your legs together, you lose your entire train of thought.

                He finally takes pity on you and asks, “Hey, Starscream, how do you want to handle this? Want me to unlace you?”

                “ _No_ ,” you gasp, before you even begin to process the question. Then the words eventually arrange themselves into a coherent thought in your head, and, “No. I want the chain to stay.”

                “Awright,” he says. “Then how do you want me to play this?”

                You… try to think it through. You really do. But it’s so _hard_ when you’re so aware of every point of contact between you, the touch of every one of his fingertips, the point where every ring pierces your legs, and the way your valve _aches_ for him. But you need to have an answer for him. You need to tell him _something_ , at least. You eventually manage, “ _I don’t know_.”

                “Shh,” he says. He presses you the smallest bit closer to his chest. “Don’t worry, we got this.”

                He pushes you away then—and even though you know he must have a reason, that he’s almost certainly just doing that so he can give you something even _nicer_ , you still feel an irrational rush of betrayal that he’d just _leave_ you like that. He swings your legs out of his lap. Gently, again, but by now your piercings are so sensitive that you think you’d feel it in your rings if you so much as ran your fans.

                You’re ready to be held again now. The berth isn’t cold, but it’s much less warm than having his frame running hot right against yours. And you don’t have his hand on your back _or_ your legs anymore. _You’re ready to be held now_.

                But he wants to rearrange you first. He helps you turn onto your side, then helps you up to hands and knees. You—don’t know what he’s aiming for. When you glance back at him, his spike still isn’t out. Plus you’d want to be able to support yourself while he fragged you, so the piercings would be a problem, you’re almost certain. What’s he going to do with you?

                He lays down beside you, just looking up while you near there. You’re confused—until he reaches up and gets a hand on your valve. Your arms almost buckle. You still have to struggle _not_ to spread your legs. You want to, _oh_ you want to. By the time he finally slips a single finger into you, your legs are shaking with the effort of _not_ spreading for him.

                You let your arms fold, let your head rest on the berth, watching him lay beside you as he fingers your valve. Your piercings ache in the best way, but nothing is better than the feeling of him inside you, feeling out all your internal nodes one at a time. You can feel yourself dripping lubricant onto the berth. You should have—something witty. Something clever to say. But all you can do is lay there and watch Wheeljack watching you.

                He says, “Work with me, Starscream. Keep that aft in the air.”

                You do your best to comply. Your aft _is_ already in the air, and it isn’t (only) vanity speaking when you say that you know you look _good_ like this. You can tell that much just from Wheeljack’s face, just from the way he looks at you.

                “Higher,” he says.

                You struggle to arch your back the smallest bit further. You press your face into the berth and fight to raise your aft just a _little_ further into the air. You really aren’t certain you _succeed_ , but Wheeljack adds another finger to your valve.

                He’s cruel, sticking to a slow, lazy rhythm. He likes to draw it out, see how long it takes you to get desperate. He’s out of luck today, because you’re so spun up already, and you can _feel_ the rings still pulling and pulling at your thighs—it won’t be long at all. He doesn’t even get around to touching your node before you hit overload. He’s lying there beside you, watching your face as you fight to hold it back—but his fingers are still moving in and out of you, every time he touches you, you shift against the rings, and you _need—_

                You struggle to keep your optics online, with limited success. Wheeljack watches you all the way through your overload, and while the aftershocks fade away. But then—he doesn’t stop. Still only ( _only_ ) the two fingers in your valve, but your piercings are throbbing in the best way with the effort of not moving, and Wheeljack manages to get his thumb on your anterior node. You don’t overload right away because you _can’t_ , you physically _can’t_. You’re practically sobbing with frustration, but his hands are gentle and relentless and he keeps moving against you until finally, _finally_ , you manage to tip over the edge a second time. Your optics offline this time. Your audio too. You aren’t certain whether you’re in control of your vocals, but you’re afraid you might have said something—embarrassing.

                When you manage to bring your optics back online again, Wheeljack stretches out on the berth beside you, looking pleased enough with himself that it’s probably better for everyone involved that he _doesn’t_ have a mouth, or the smugness in the room would be reaching dangerous levels. He asks, “Done?”

                You don’t quite have words sorted, and nodding is a little difficult with your face pressed into the berth like this, but you think he takes your meaning. He helps you upright, turns you, then lays you down on your back. You’re still half-dazed. Is this the part where he unlaces you? You suppose that would be reasonable. But he’s still kneeling over you and he hasn’t made a single move towards the lock yet.

                Instead he reaches between his legs. _Oh_. You have to smile there. Nothing quite like this to make a mech feel appreciated. He opens his panel, takes his spike in hand, and pushes two fingers up his valve, all without taking his optics off you. You’re a little exhausted and your legs are a little sore to be doing much moving. But you’re more than happy to lie there and be _admired_. You take in the view, savor it. You’re definitely enjoying yourself. But when you look up at Wheeljack, meet his optics, and smile, that finishes him. He curls forward over you, transfluid spilling over his fingers as he hits his overload.

                Even without a mouth, _his_ smile shows in his optics as he straightens and looks down at you. He moves one hand to cup your cheek for a short moment, before he turns to the lock. He undoes that and sets it aside easily. But—your legs are sore and you’d like to be unlaced now. But also you’d like to be _held_ , and you think—it isn’t so terrible to ask that from _Wheeljack_ , is it?

                Fortunately, it doesn’t take much clinging to get your point across. He sighs at you, but he still pulls you into his lap and lets you lean up against his shoulder before he goes back to undoing your chain. You thought he was slow and careful before, but that’s nothing compared to what he’s like now. If you weren’t watching him work, you wouldn’t believe he was actually touching you. You don’t feel a single pull against any of your rings while he unlaces you.

                And even when the chain is undone, he doesn’t let you go yet. He going back over your rings, bending down to peer at one or two piercings. To make certain you’re unhurt, you suppose—it’s an interesting feeling, realizing that. You don’t quite know what to do with it. Fortunately, it seems like you don’t have to do much at all. You only have to let him hold you against him.

                But all things must end, and Wheeljack eventually finishes his examination. He turns the last ring to lie in line with your others, and you can’t help a shiver at the feeling as it moves inside you. Both of you glance over at the pile of little red studs. You… _ought_ to replace them, but— The two of you begin talking both at once.

                “My legs are still a little—”

                “Maybe think we should—”

                You both stop. You venture, “I’m still a little sore.”

                He nods. His arms are still around you. “I was just thinking that maybe we should wait to swap them out. Not long, just—not right away.”

                You do your best to act nonchalant as you reach up and put your arms around his neck. “What about a quick recharge together?”

                There’s no need for him to stay. No need for _him_ to do the replacements, really. But _still_. It would be… nice.

                But he doesn’t argue. He chuckles and bends down to let his forehead press against yours. “Can’t argue with a plan like that.”

                You let yourself smile and press a quick kiss to his faceplate. “I have _all_ the best plans. It’s those inborn leadership talents, you know how that goes.”

                He lifts you out of his lap and lays you down on the berth, then stretches out beside you. “Gotta keep coming up with more plans like this, then. So we can test for repeatability. Statistical significance, you know.”

                You have no clue what most of those words meant, but you’ll go ahead and assume it meant something good. You keep your optics on him for a few minutes as you lay next to each other. You’d almost think he was asleep, but then his hand moves to rest on your thigh, just alongside your row of piercings. You hesitate for a moment, but then move your own hand so it rests on top of Wheeljack's, covering his. He shifts, his hand turns—and then it’s resting palm up on your thigh, and his fingers are curling around yours. You don’t bother trying to hide your smile, you just dim your optics, hold his hand, and let yourself relax into sleep.


	34. Chromedome/Rewind: Temperature Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/143824382831/relationship-chromedomerewind-rating-hard-t)

                “Close your vents,” Rewind says.

                You do. No question.

                “That’s good,” he tells you.

                There’s a comfortable pause. You’re on your knees on the floor in front of him, sitting back on your heels. It puts you at just the right height for him to get his hands all over your frame. Nothing fast, nothing urgent. Just you, him, and all the time in the world for him to explore your chassis with his hands.

                But even taking it all slow and lazy like this, you can still feel the charge building. And more particularly, the heat. Your fans are running, but with your vents closed, it isn’t going to do you much good. You tell Rewind, “I’m running hot.”

                “I know,” he says. And he reaches down to rest a hand against your panel.

                Oh, so that’s what this is about. You shut your fans down too.

                Rewind hears that, and straightens up. “Domey, that’s bad for you.”

                You shrug. “I can handle it.”

                “Well you shouldn’t _have_ to handle it, not if you knew how to take care of yourself.” He puts his arms around your neck and leans his forehead up against yours. “Good thing you have me around to help with that.”

                You nod solemnly. “Very true. Primus knows what would happen if I didn’t have someone here to tell me to shut my vents when I’m already running hot.”

                That makes him laugh. “That’s not what I meant! And you know it.” He takes a step back and looks you up and down. “I did have something I was going for here, you know.”

                Rewind nudges your legs further apart and kneels down between them. He just looks at you for a long moment, and even without him touching you, just his optics on you, just the _anticipation_ , it has you heating up even more. When he finally reaches for your panel, it opens before he even touches you.

                “Sorry—”

                “No, no,” he laughs. His hand is on your valve. “You’re fine. Only rule for now is that you keep your vents closed for as long as you can.”

                “I’m leaving my fans off too.”

                He sighs. “You know, it worries me that you have no sense of self-preservation.”

                “I’m helping—”

                “ _Domey._ ”

                “I _am_. My frame doesn’t retain much heat. If we wait for me to overheat that way, we’ll be waiting for ages.”

                “ _Domey_.”

                You don’t know what’s bothering him now. You just kneel and watch him watching you until he finally breaks the silence.

                “You know, maybe I wanted this to be extra slow. Maybe I wanted to give you plenty of time to safeword out before you actually got hurt. Maybe I wanted you to be able to stop things before you went into involuntary shutdown, or before you _damaged_ something. You know, silly little things like that.”

 _Oh_. “That won’t work. Because I won’t do it.”

                He gives you a long, hard look, then takes his hand from your valve so he can reach up and cup your face, pull you down against him. He rests his forehead against yours and asks, “Why?”

                “Because—Because I’ll hit shutdown before I safeword, won’t I?”

                “ _No_ , you’re supposed to safeword _before_ you pass out. Domey, we can’t do this unless you’re going to keep yourself safe! I do mean it, I really _do_ mean it, when I say that you worry me.”

                You put a tentative arm around his back, and after a moment’s hesitation, you reach up with your free hand to hold his cheek. He leans into your touch. “But I _am_ safe.” He tries to interrupt, but you press on. “No, listen. Because you’re here. _You’re_ here. You aren’t going to let me get hurt, not in any way that matters. Never mind involuntary shutdown, I’d trust you to sever my spark. I’d open my chamber for you and let you do it.”

                You’re saying something wrong. He’s even more upset now. “ _No, Domey_. You can’t do that to me. You can’t let me believe that you won’t do _anything_ to protect yourself. I’ll do the best for you I can, you know I will, but you can’t tell me that you’ll trust me to always know best and always be perfect every time ever. Please don’t do that to me.”

                “I’m not worried—”

                “ _I’m worried_ ,” he snaps. He pulls back, just enough to break contact. But his hands are still on your face, forcing you to meet his optics. “You can’t. Okay? You can’t. You’re not allowed to do this. If you love me, you _can’t_.”

                You want to agree with him, you want to make him _happy_ , you do, but, “I don’t understand.”

                He dims his optics for a moment. You can hear his fans run a slow cycle. “You can’t tell me that I’m the only person here who will take care of you. That I’m the only person here who will _protect_ you. If I make a stupid mistake—and trust me, I make stupid mistakes! If I mess up, I need to know that you’re there to back me up, that you won’t let me being an idiot get you hurt for _real_. If I do something dumb, I need to know that you’re going to _stop me_. And before you ask, yes, that definitely includes me letting you overheat to the point of internal damage. If you love me, please don’t let me do that to you.”

                You… would. You _want_ to let him do it. You want to surrender completely, know you have no control over what happens to you, putting everything into someone else’s hands. But more than that, you don’t want to upset Rewind. “I won’t,” you say. “I won’t. I promise.”

                And then, belatedly, you add, “And also I love you.”

                That gets a shaky little chuckle out of him. But you can feel him relaxing against your hands. He puts his arms around your neck again, leans up against you, his cheek against yours. Your vents are still shut, but you let your fans spin up again, and you can feel Rewind hold you even tighter.

                He eventually says, “Rules.”

                Your very articulate reply is, “Mm?”

                “We just need some rules to frame this right. That way we’re making _you,_ ” he kicks your leg, “happy. And setting you up to keep yourself safe, because without me, you’re a complete disaster.”

                “True,” you agree.

                He pushes back and drops to his knees again, between your legs. Your valve aches for him, but he only rests his hands on your thighs and gives you a measuring look. “Two rules, then. First, you keep your vents closed. Second, you tell me when you’ve got… hmm. Thirty seconds to go to involuntary shutdown. Or enough damage you need to see a doctor.”

                “You’re perfect,” you tell him.

                “No I’m not, and that was the whole point of this talk. But also, yes. Yes, I absolutely am.”

                You can’t help laughing, even if the sound is choked off as he reaches up to cup your valve. Your frame is already heating up fast. You don’t have the words for everything you’re feeling. But you tell him, “I trust you.”

                He looks up and meets your optics. You can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “I trust you too.”


	35. Tailgate/Whirl: Service

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/144331306226/relationship-tailgatewhirl-rating-m-words-2422)

                You can pinpoint the exact moment you start to lose control of the situation. It’s when you’re leaning back on your berth, having a _fantastic_ time, watching Tailgate trying to adjust to your spike as he sinks down onto you—and your brain decides to be a team player, and floats up a thought: _why is he here?_

                Not a good road to go down. Really not a good road. Honest, you _know_ these things, and you are _more than aware_ you don’t want to be thinking about that right now. But surprise! Once you start, you just can’t stop. None of it makes it past your vocalizer, _thank Primus_ , you’re not that stupid—or are you just that selfish? But your brain is still shouting loud enough to drown out the rest of the world. Why is he here, _why is he here??_

                What’s even wrong with you. If he’s here, he must want to be here. _Obviously_. You wouldn’t be watching him like this, all stretched out around your spike and still trying to take more, if he didn’t want to be here. Your brain, ever helpful, decides that if that’s the case, you should _totally_ be able to come up with some reasons why he’d want to spend time with you. Maybe? At least one reason? Ahaha, you’ve got nothing. That’s _hilarious_.

                And oh look. There you go, you’ve screwed everything up. As you do. Because Tailgate finally looks up, and as soon as his optics focus on you, he freezes. Oh _come on_. If there was _one_ advantage to not having a face, you’d think that at least it would make it harder for people to read you, but Tailgate never seems to struggle. You kind of hate him for it right now.

                Tailgate, being Tailgate—well, his first instinct is to reach up for you. You, being you, have a massive cockpit in the way. You’re twisted as much as you can so, y’know. So he can physically fit in your lap. Does a number on your spinal strut, but it’s worth it. Still doesn’t give Tailgate enough room to get his giant chestplate past _your_ giant chestplate, and he falls awful short of getting his arms actually around your neck. Ha! Short. It’s funny because Tailgate _is_ awful short.

                Guh, still not quite doing it. You haven’t managed to make yourself laugh properly by the time Tailgate finally adjusts enough to get his hands on your not-a-face and pull you down towards him. You jiggle a leg a bit, enough to unbalance him so your spike shifts inside him. And enough to distract him? Maybe? Mm, no such luck. And you might have just tipped your hand, because he’s got a look in his optics like he’s caught onto you. Caught? Onto what? You’re but an innocent mech, innocently wondering why his innocent interface session got interrupted. So much innocence. You are the innocentest, it is you.

                But he just holds you steady, his optics looking right into yours. _You_ of course, are looking off over his shoulder into the far corner of the room. There’s too much quiet. You ought to break the silence with something dumb or provocative (both? both is good), but that would mean you’d have to think of something to say first.

                Tailgate finally says, “You okay?”

                “ _Obviously_.” Ahahaaaaaaa, you still can’t get yourself to look at him. _Why does he want to be here?_

                More awkward silence. Hmmhmhm. Not your job to figure out what to say. You said the last thing. It’s _his_ turn now.

                But then, instead of talking, he lifts himself off your spike. Ohhhh no. Nononono _no_ , even if the whole point of this is that you don’t deserve him, you’re, you’re selfish, you want him, you don’t want him to _go—_ You didn’t know what to say before, but right now you’re pretty sure you just plain can’t speak, everything you want to say choking off in your vox box—But. His hands are still on your face, holding you steady. He isn’t letting you break away. Right. Ha. You always forget how strong he is these days.

                You brute-force your way to something kind of like calm—not that you were panicking! You were totally super calm before. And now you’re super _calmer_. And Tailgate is still _there_. So see? Nothing to worry about—so it’s good you were never worrying in the first place.

                Tailgate is still watching you closely. Finally, he nods and says, “Lay down on the berth?”

                Words are still offline? Words are still offline. Guess there’s nothing for it but to do what he says, then. You lay on your back, cross-wise on the berth—which is apparently wrong, because Tailgate picks up your legs under his arms and pivots you around so that you’re lying the _right_ way. True facts, it never stops being unfairly adorable watching him go around just casually picking up mechs twice his size. Most mechs don’t enjoy being picked up for no reason, so mostly that means that you poke and prod at him until he gives in and picks _you_ up.

                So okay. Berth. Tailgate. You’re on your back, he’s between your legs. You’ve got your spinal strut twisted just enough that you can barely peek at him past the edge of your cockpit, and it’s almost like he can’t see you at all—you’re not hiding behind your cockpit, what? Even if he’s still looking you straight in the optic, it’s _almost_ like he can’t see you.

                You feel it more than you see it when he runs his hands along your thighs, up over your hips and stomach. He smooths them along your dermal plating, right up to the bottom edge of your cockpit. And then slowly _, slowly_ , back down your stomach. Only baaaaarely inching towards your hips—it’s a sudden shock when he takes your spike in one hand and cups his other hand over your valve. Your hips arch off the bed before you can catch yourself.

                That makes him laugh—and it’s your _favorite_ Tailgate laugh, the I’m-laughing-because-I’m-happy laugh. It’s a good laugh for him. And you will quietly take personal credit for that, even though you’ve done pretty much nothing helpful or enjoyable all evening.

                He presses his palm against your valve, sets a nice teasing rhythm that’s just _barely_ too slow—you can’t quite match yourself to him, but he won’t accelerate to match you. His other hand runs up and down your spike—like this, you can see that his fingers don’t quite meet around you, and it’s unspeakably unfair how that makes your spark melt. You try to reach out for him—not a good angle, with hands like yours, but maybe you can get half a decent grip on his arms at least. But before you can get anywhere, he takes his hand off your spike ( _the worst!_ ) and lifts it to stop you.

                “Just lie down,” he says. “Lie down and _relax_. I’m going to take care of you.”

                What do you say to that? You sure don’t know, but hey, you haven’t known what to say since this whole night started, so this sure looks like normal operating conditions. So you lower your claws back down to rest on the berth.

                “Good,” Tailgate says. You can’t help a little shiver at the smile you can hear in his voice.

                And he puts his hand back on your spike. So yes, _definitely_ good, you have made an excellent decision. Shh, it’s a secret, don’t tell, but you’ll probably do whatever Tailgate tells you to do if it means he’ll keep touching you this way. If you just need to lie down and relax, you are going to be the most relaxed mech ever forged in the entire history of Cybertron. That’s definitely an accurate description of you.

                Well, you’re _trying_ to be relaxed—and effort should count, right? Only it’s a little hard to chase true relaxation with Tailgate _touching_ you like this. He’s still sticking to that same tortuous barely-too-slow pace, and even if you could figure out how to unlock your vox box, you’re not sure if it would be right—you’re not sure if you _deserve_ to ask for more. You keep your hands pressed to the berth, and you do your best to keep the rest of you still too, but it’s hard, it’s so hard with his hands on you like this.

                You’re almost shaking with the effort of trying to hold still, but then the heel of his hand presses against your node, and that’s it, you’ve officially passed the bounds of your (admittedly limited) self-control. You arch up into his hands again, already trying to sort out words enough to maybe apologize—or at least make some dumb, derail-y joke, but he just moves with you as you try to chase that contact. He’s laughing again, that same happy laugh that fits him so well. You privately add another tick to the taking-credit-for-that column.

                And oh. When you settle yourself back down onto the berth, Tailgate rewards you with fingers in your valve. Two fingers, only barely enough for you to feel it—but you’ll forgive him, because he also gets his thumb against your node. He works his fingers in and out of you. Still slow, but faster— _enough_ faster. You can chase this, you’re pretty sure. You’re almost certain he wants you to overload like this (though you’re not sure what you did to earn this kind of treatment), and yeah, wow, you think you can work with this.

                You could work with this. You _should_ be able to work with this. There is no decent reason why you _shouldn’t_ be able to work with this. But hey, not-decent reasons! You’ve got plenty of those. And as soon as his rhythm steadied out and he started trying to ease you towards a finish, your brain decided it had been too long since you tried to shoot yourself in the foot, and started chiming in with helpful thoughts again. Surprise, it’s a little hard to focus on your overload when you can’t stop thinking about why is he doing this, why is he here, _why does he want you._

                So that’s great. And it’s… kind of humiliating what an easy time Tailgate has reading it off your face. Maybe not _exactly_ what you’re thinking, but. He can tell when you’re getting… distracted? Let’s call this distracted. You’re pretty much dreading the inevitable moment when he tries to ask you what’s wrong. _That’s_ a conversation that’s going to go well.

                But _thank Primus_ , he doesn’t try that. No, the way _he_ decides he’s going to deal with this problem is that every time you start getting distracted? Well. That’s when Tailgate decides to get your attention by flicking his finger against your node. Not hard—but on your _node_ , it doesn’t take very much to hit that blurred line between pleasure and pain.

                The first time it happens, you do actually make a strangled little not-words noise and curl forward on the berth before you catch yourself. You settle yourself back down, trying not to let your hands shake, but there’s nothing you can do about the way your fans are running as loud as you’ve ever heard them, or the way all your vents are wide open. As soon as you’ve laid back down, Tailgate’s fingers begin working against you again, as slow and merciless as ever.

                It—happens a few more times. More than a few times. No matter how hard you try, you can’t figure out how to just _lose yourself_ the way you want to in the way he’s touching you. It’s… frustrating. And if it’s frustrating for _you_ , you can hardly imagine how it feels for him. Nope, scratch that, you can totally imagine it, that’s one of the things you start getting flicks to the node for. And it feels like the closer you get to your overload, the more problems you have _focusing_ on your overload—it just—it _isn’t happening, and you don’t know why._

                It feels like you’re being dragged kicking and screaming to your overload—you don’t know how that works, because Tailgate wants you to overload, _you_ want you to overload, _you can’t tell what’s going wrong here—_ but Tailgate doesn’t let up, no matter how you squirm. And finally, _somehow_ , it tips you over the edge.

                Your optics white out. Your legs are shaking, and Tailgate’s fingers are still working in and out of you, and you can’t help thrashing at how _too much_ everything is. He doesn’t take his thumb off your node, no matter how you squirm—though he _does_ take his hand off your spike, so he can pin you to the berth. You’re pretty sure you’re not physically capable of containing all the charge it feels like you vented. You’ve… drawn on your future charge reserves, or something. For this overload. Something like that. You definitely know how science works.

                The overload does end. Eventually. When you finally stop shaking, Tailgate takes his fingers out of you. You—don’t want him to go. Or okay, to be accurate, your valve _has been_ done and _is_ done in a pretty major way, But you don’t want Tailgate to _go_.

                So before your higher brain function can catch up and inject some common sense, you reach down, snag his arm, and pull him up against you. You don’t really know what to _do_ with him once you have him. You should be thinking about how to return the favor, right? Ha, well. Turns out what you do is wrap your arms around him, hold him tight against you, and bury your face against his shoulder. Super lame of you, you know. But at least Tailgate doesn’t seem to mind.

                Not only does Tailgate not _mind_ , but he seems to be… happy? Like this? He settles in just fine against you, even though your cockpit is probably digging into his side. He even gets his arms around your neck and leans his head sideways against yours. You kind of wish you could see his face right now—but that would give him a chance to see _your_ face, so. Nope, not happening. But you can hear his fans running a slow, calm cycle, and his thumb is brushing over the back of your neck as he holds you against him. You resettle your arms around him and dim your optic. And like this, you think you could maybe call yourself _happy_.


	36. Brainstorm/Perceptor: Altered States

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for alcohol in this story
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/144436521971/relationship-brainstormperceptor-rating-t)

                So! You wake up in the morning face down on the berth, with someone’s arm across your back. Someone’s _heavy_ arm across your back. Very heavy. Somebody is pinning you to the berth is what you’re trying to say.

                Ugh, that’s overstating it. You could move if you wanted. But… yeah, you don’t really feel like moving. You _never_ wake up quickly, but this? This is definitely worse than normal. Did you and Chromedome spend an evening drinking again? Was he too drunk to get his aft back to his own quarters? Primus, you can’t remember. But this is _your berth_ , and Chromedome can go share a berth with Rewind if he feels like he needs to cuddle up with someone. He’s sober enough to drive himself home by now.

                Your face is still buried in your berth – you think you may never move again – but you reach back over your shoulders to tweak his finials. And… there aren’t finials. Just a smooth helmet. And—is that a cannon? What? Who’s even in your berth with you?

                Okay, _fine_ , you suppose this is worth moving for. You’ve got this. Just lift your head. Tuuuuuuurn. And—

                Perceptor? Haha, okay. _No way_. Okay, then, this is literally not happening. You’re clearly still asleep. You’ve had plenty of dreams like this, so. Ha! You’ve outfoxed your own brain. Way to make it obvious that this isn’t real.  And since it’s a dream… Can’t hurt anything to go for a quick kiss, right?

                _Super sneaky stealth mode activated_. Not really. You don’t have a stealth mode (though you really _should_ , you need to get going and invent that already). And there isn’t any actual need to be sneaky. But you can’t help yourself. You inch closer and closer, pausing every time you move to re-notice his arm! On you! Perceptor’s arm! And then, disaster strikes. His optics come online, and there you are, your face so close to his that plausible deniability is going to be a _little_ strained by the situation. And oh. Your mask is still on. This is really a disaster all around, isn’t it.

                But then? Perceptor closes the distance and kisses _you_. Just a short little kiss. Really short. (Too short). Still! And then when he pulls back, he _smiles_ at you. His arm is still across your back. His optics dim, but he leans back up against you again. This feels so _real_. Is it real? Also it feels so unreal. Very, very unreal. But— you know what you mean. You’re starting to become suspicious that you aren’t dreaming at all (and by suspicious you mean certain – you’re just in denial).

                You clear your throat a couple times before you manage, “So… What’s up?”

                Agh, Primus, way to blow it. You managed about 0.3 sentences there before screwing it up.

                “Just waking up. You?”

                “…also that thing.”

                He smiles again, oh man. And he says, “Feeling alright? That was a lot of engex.”

                _Ha_. You _knew_ you’d been drinking. Totally called it. You are one hundred percent on top of this situation. But your mouth has run ahead of your brain, because you’re already saying, “It was?”

                And that makes him pull away. Oh nooo no no. Don’t do that! Your arms are a little pinned, but as he shifts away from you, you try to—something. Get an arm around his waist. You finally got a, a _chance_ , you can’t let it slip away now—

                Perceptor props himself up on one elbow and looks down at you. And you’re still face-down on the berth. You’re. A little ability-to-roll-over impaired. Wings, you know? But he’s still _close_ , close enough to touch (you’re totally touching), and he’s not moving any further away, and he’s still smiling at you. Oh, and he’s talking.

                “Missing a few hours? What’s the last thing you remember?”

                You are a _master_ of blank looks. Maybe not the best time to be showing off your incredible blank look skills. But hey, do what you’re good at, right?

                Perceptor prompts, “I asked you to tell me about your time travel machine?”

                Oh. _Ohh, Primus_. You take your hand off his hip. So you can cover your face. “…did I turn it into a drinking game?”

                He laughs. But you think—you _think_ —that this is the _nice_ kind of laugh. “We had to drink every time you said ‘quantum.’”

                You groan. “ _We must have been so drunk_.”

                “True.”

                You still have a hand over your face—still not looking at him, at _anything_ , nope, nope. But you can feel it when he settles down against your side again. You can feel it when he puts his arm across your back again.

                After a long moment of quiet, he asks, “Things beginning to fall into place?”

                It’s not exactly an answer, but you say, “You kissed me?”

                You can’t hear his laugh, but you can _feel_ it in your frame. “In my defense, you kissed me first. And things escalated in a mutually pleasurable direction, hm?”

                Oh oh oh. This is—his hand is running along the base of your wing in, in a _really_ interesting way. You’re trying not to jump to bad conclusions, but—this isn’t really _jumping_ , is it? It’s like. A very, very tiny step to an extremely logical conclusion. You let your head drop. Your helmet clunks against the berth. “I don’t remember _anything_.”

                And Perceptor freezes. Which is the worst? Empirical evidence suggests that it is _literally_ the worst.

                You hastily add, “ _Don’t stop_ —” and try not to cringe at the way it comes out more like a plea than like a casual conversation casual mechs have. Casually.

                He goes back to running his hand along your wing, though. So you’re totally going to count this as a win.

                He asks, “Nothing?”

                Urgh. “Nothing,” you confirm. And after another awkward pause, you add, “Sorry.”

                He’s still there, though. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, but he’s still right there against you. You can feel his fans running a slow, calm cycle. His arm is still around you.

                Perceptor sighs and says, “Oh well. I’d been hoping you could fill in some of the holes in _my_ memory.”

                “Really?”

                “Well, I remember roughly what happened. But I really don’t recall much of the later parts of your explanation of your machine.” He sighs again. “Yes, it doesn’t look like I retained much at all.”

                You lift your head enough that you can just barely see him from the corner of your optic. “I could… tell you about it again?”

                He shifts even closer to you. This is the _best. thing._ You can’t even tell if he really means it about not remembering, or if he’s just trying to make you feel better. But here’s the thing – you don’t _care_. Perceptor didn’t just want to look at your time machine, and he didn’t just want to hear about it once. He wants to hear about it _multiple times_.

                Perceptor’s free hand reaches around to catch _your_ hand and pull it away from your faceplate. His fingers stay curled around yours. His lips brush right against your audio when he answers, “I’d like that. I’d like that very, very much.”


	37. Impactor/Springer: Penance/Punishment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for plenty of blood, very rough body play, and a general failure to play safe, sane, and consensual in this story

                The air in the shuttle is so thick and heavy you can hardly vent, all the way up from the planet’s surface up until you deck with the ship again. It’s crowded. On your way out, it was a friendly, companionable sort of crowded. Now it feels so cramped you can hardly stand to move, because it means you’ll _touch_ someone, and— No prisoners, no matter what the orders were that Prowl passed along. Probably for the best, you keep telling yourself. Too crowded as it is. All you want to do is shout and break things. The whole shuttle stinks of scorched circuitry, spilled energon, and dead organics.

                Impactor’s the first one off the shuttle once you’re docked. You’re nearly the last. But you can’t take your optics off him. Your side is still leaking, but you don’t want to go to the medbay right now. Instead, once you’re in the hallway, you walk fast. You shove past Whirl and Twin Twist, edge past Roadbuster, just so you can walk past Impactor—and shoulder-check him into the wall.

                You keep walking, pretending like nothing happened. You don’t even make it two full steps before Impactor grabs your shoulder, spinning you around and slamming you against the wall so hard you feel one of your fan bearings snap. He pins you there, his harpoon across your throat, both of you wordlessly staring each other down while the others walk by. Whirl pauses to say something suggestive before Rack’n’Ruin grab him by the arm and pull him off down the hall.

                Impactor’s leaning against you, bringing his weight to bear. As the last of the others disappear through a doorway, he starts to grin. You headbutt him in the face.

                It doesn’t do much, not with a helmet like his. But it makes him mad. He headbutts you right back, even harder. Your optics glitch out for a second, and you can taste energon. You can feel energon too, leaking down your neck and pooling against your collar. You didn’t even feel it when his harpoon cut you. If you were standing on your own, you’d be reeling. As it is, you slump against him, struggling to find your footing again. You’re trying to reach up to see if all your dentae are still in your mouth, but you’re too dizzy to find your own face. And then Impactor’s already there.

                He kisses you hard and vicious, despite the way he must be getting a nice mouthful of energon. He’s right where you want him, but you fight back anyways, scrabbling against him, trying to find some leverage, until he snarls against your mouth and pulls back just far enough to slam you into the wall again.

                That’s painful enough, but when Impactor presses back up against you, his elbow glances off the wound in your side, and your vision whites out for a second time and your knees buckle. You throw yourself headfirst into the pain, struggling against him again before you can even properly find your own feet. When you do manage to get a grip on his armor, instead of shoving him away, you drag him down even harder against you. He’s close, too close and not close enough, and all you can do his haul him down against your mouth and bite at his lips until he snarls and presses a deliberate hand against your wound.

                This time, you wrench him sideways so both of you go crashing to the floor. You roll together, and he lands on top of you, his hand still pressing against your side. You almost lose consciousness—you’re losing seconds here and there, you can feel time skipping as your systems struggle to stabilize. You don’t care, you’re still trying to claw at his face, get your fingers into the gaps between his plates and make him _hurt_ —it gets you what you’re after, because he leans on your side harder and harder until you’re on the edge of passing out, leaking fresh energon, your hands falling to the ground. He’s grinning—you think—and you realize, distantly, that you’re laughing, and you don’t know how to stop. You can feel his thigh pressed against your valve.

                He eventually releases the pressure on your wound, which almost hurts more than him touching it in the first place. You fight to stay awake, but your chronometer is skipping, and you’re only getting flashes of movement from him as your system tries to slip offline. When your vision finally evens out again, Impactor has his spike in his hand, touching himself slow and lazy while he watches you. You try to knee him in the valve, but you don’t have the space to get much force behind it.

                He grins at your attempt, at least. You’re braced for him to go for your injury again, but he only shifts forward to take your spike in his hand too, stroking both of you together. You don’t know when you opened your plating, but even that first touch is almost enough to bring you to overload. He leans forward over you, and your mouth is already half-open, waiting for a kiss—but instead he stops, his face barely separated from your, and braces his elbow against the ground and sets his harpoon across your neck.

                And then he begins to move, grinding his hips down against your, thrusting into his hand and against your spike. When you try to arch up against him or close the distance between your mouth and his, any movement at all, you can feel his harpoon biting into your throat. You don’t know whether you’re imagining it catching against the ragged edges of the cut from before, and you don’t _care_.

                You don’t stop fighting to move, struggling against the harpoon, until he finally bends down, crushing his mouth against yours. You can feel his frame pressing against your injured side every time he shifts, and fight to stay conscious as he grinds against you. Your overload hits before his does, and thrash against him while you spill transfluid all over his hand. It feels like all his weight is resting right on your wound and you lose a few seconds when he drives down even harder against you. You come back online just in time to see his overload take him, and he slumps against you while he shakes through the aftershocks.

                He still pulls himself together enough to move before you do. He goes to his knees, pauses while he looks down at you, then up to his feet. You still haven’t budged. He takes a few slow steps around you, then nudges at your side with one foot. You try not to show how that touch almost sends you off into unconsciousness again.

                “Get that treated,” he says. “The neck too.”

                And then he’s gone.

                After a minute, you drag yourself over to the wall. With that extra support—and a few failed attempts—you eventually manage to find your feet. You look back over at the puddle of energon and transfluid on the floor. Someone else can deal with that. _Impactor_ can deal with that. Not your problem.

                Your vision swims when you try to actually walk, so you lean on the wall, all the way back to your quarters. For a moment, you do consider calling a drone from the medbay. And then you decide you don’t want to. Instead, you make your way to your berth and lay down. You’re still leaking energon from your side and neck, but it’s fine. Berths are easy enough to clean. You dim your optics, let yourself slip into recharge, and do your best not to dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/145191411441/relationship-impactorspringer-rating-mature)


	38. Megatron/Tailgate: Ageplay (Age Difference)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ageplay in the sense of there being a significant age/experience differential, not in the sense of kink roleplay

                You’re at your office, working on nothing in particular, when Tailgate comes to see you. It isn’t your duty shift. But where else are you supposed to spend your time? Your quarters? There’s only so long you can spend staring at the same four walls before you go mad with it. So instead, you’re spending your time staring at a _different_ set of four walls. Besides, this way, if your crew needs you, they’re able to find you. Like now, apparently.

                In fact, you’re so absorbed in paging though your datapad that you miss it entirely Tailgate comes through your open office door. You only notice he’s there when he knocks politely on your desk. You manage not to jolt upright—you aren’t on duty, after all, so it can hardly be said that you’re _slacking_ —and find him looking up at you. His hands are behind his back, and he’s rocking back and forth on his heels.

                You ask, “Yes?”

                He clears his vocalizer—human tic, you blame those offworld movies this entire ship seems to be obsessed with—then shifts nervously and looks down at his pedes. “I heard,” he says. “At Swerve’s. I heard that you’ve never kissed anyone.”

                You open your mouth.

                You shut your mouth.

                Finally, you manage, “I’m afraid that is not the case.”

                He looks up and meets your optics. You can hear the grin in his voice when he says, “Prove it?”

                You hardly know how to react at first. You certainly check your processor to be sure you aren’t having some sort of very strange hallucination, but no, this does appear to be happening. You can hardly recall the last time someone was so forward with you. Impactor, perhaps? Which means that it’s been several million years, at the very least. You can’t even pretend that you aren’t charmed.

                It can be so easy to forget how small Tailgate is. But even from your chair, you’d have to bend nearly double to reach him. Instead, you take a knee in front of him. You move slowly, giving him plenty of opportunity to decide the joke has gone far enough, or that he doesn’t want to be here. You wouldn’t even be upset if that happened, it’s very much to his credit that he was daring enough to do this in the first place. But he doesn’t back down. Rather, when you put one finger under his chin to tip his face upwards, he reaches up to put his arms around your neck.

                It isn’t a terribly interesting kiss, as far as kisses go. You gently press your lips to his faceplate and stay there. You don’t push him further, and you let him decide how long it will last. He does eventually shift away and take a single step back. You let him go. He looks at you, then turns his head away—then sneaks another glance at you out of the corner of his optics. He reaches one hand up to touch his faceplate. You confess to yourself that you’re even more charmed than you were before.

                After a moment of silence, he says, “I also—I _also_ heard that you never fragged anyone.”

                You can’t help a single laugh at his daring. He flinches, begins to back away towards the door, but you hold up a hand to stop him. You can’t stop smiling, but you have to reboot your vocalizer twice before you manage to respond.

                “May I assume that you plan to ask me to prove that I know how to frag?” He nods. “I am… not unwilling. But first, I must ask whether you’re certain this is something you do indeed want. There’s no shame in backing down if you are unsure, and I have no desire to take a reluctant partner to berth. Think on it. Is this what you want?”

                He doesn’t give you an immediate answer. Good. You submit yourself to his consideration, though you still can’t stop yourself from smiling as he looks you up and down. You are entirely too charmed. You can’t recall the last time you saw a mech this young and bold. There’s something indescribable about the daring that comes with youth, the confidence and audacity. The war hadn’t allowed for that sort of innocence—but no. This is neither the time nor the place. You won’t linger on guilt for the moment, only allow yourself to think that this is one of the only Cybertronians left in existence who wouldn’t be afraid to approach you in this way.

                Tailgate may not have answered you instantly, but he doesn’t have to think long on the matter either. He meets your optics, takes a step forward, and asks, “Please?”

                 You wonder, for one wild moment, if he’s asking you to interface with him right now, right _here_ , in your office where any number of mechs could burst in at any time—Whether or not that’s what he’s after, that plan sounds entirely too _Rodimus_ for your taste. So you incline you head to him, and say, “Will you do me the honor of joining me in my quarters?”

                On your knees, you’re taller than he is, but he still extends a hand to help you to your feel. You wouldn’t be so discourteous as to reject that offer. When you’re standing again, you’re reminded all over again of just how _small_ Tailgate is. As you walk to your hab suite, you’ve slowed your pace to match his, and it still takes him five or six steps to match a single step of yours. His head barely clears your knees. But he still cranes his head to look up at you as you walk together, with no sign of trepidation.

                The two of you receive some strange looks from crewmembers you pass             in the hallways. Nothing that would make you uneasy, especially not after most of the ship reacted to your joining them with open hostility. You are worried for a moment on Tailgate’s behalf—but when you look down at him, he appears entirely unconcerned. He doesn’t pause or hesitate as he follows you into your quarters and lets your door shut behind him.

                And then, you must confess, you are at something of a loss. As commander of an army, you had little time or inclination for these sort of dalliances, and this has an entirely different tenor than those rare affairs you did have. You might have compared Tailgate’s boldness to Impactor… but Tailgate is certainly no Impactor, and it would be unfair to expect their similarities to extend beyond that. To be frank, you aren’t sure what to do next.

                You’ve gotten distracted—but when your attention returns to Tailgate, he hasn’t even noticed. Instead, he’s standing beside your berth, eyeing it uncertainly. He glances at you, looks back at the berth, and says, “Um.”

                You’re lost for a moment… and then realize that a standard berth does sit approximately level with his head. You’re certain he and the other smaller mechs have accommodations in their own quarters, but it is rather less of an issue for you. So you take a knee in front of him, extend your hands, and ask, “May I?”

                He steps forward into your hands almost before you’re finished asking. When you take him by the waist, he sets his hands on your forearms to brace himself. You lift him carefully, settling him down on the edge of your berth. But when you release his waist, he grabs one of your hands and imperiously tugs you forward. You can’t help smiling again as you surrender and turn to seat yourself beside him.

                There, again, you hesitate, unsure of how to proceed. Tailgate has no such reservations. Without a moment of hesitation, he climbs up into your lap, kneeling on your thighs as he runs his hands up over your chest and out to your shoulders.

                That at least shakes you out of your hesitation—because as eager and willing as he is, it’s becoming increasingly apparent that he isn’t anything you would call _experienced_. It is entirely unfair to him for you to lose yourself in your own head while he’s here with you, expecting your attention and focus. So you slide one arm around his back to hold him against you, and bend down to kiss him again.

                He laughs delightedly as your lips press against his faceplate. You don’t try to hide the way you’re still smiling over everything he does and every reaction he has. His hands dip into your shoulder joints, tracing sensitive cables, and it suddenly occurs to you just how _small_ his hands are, and all the places he can reach. With your free hand, you take one of his, and guide it down along the underside of your chestplate, show him all the places he can slip his fingers inside your plating and make you shiver.

                He learns quickly, exploring with his hands, finding the little vents along your sides and tracing them out. You return the favor. His vents spin up when you run your fingers along the trailing edge of his backplate, and when you touch his wheels, he tips his head back, and lets you press kisses all down his neck.

                You’re prepared to take as long as he needs, or indeed, to call off the whole thing entirely if Tailgate decides he’s had enough. You suppose that eventually you’ll manage to get used to the way he reacts. Because as soon as he’s become comfortable with the situation, his first impulse is to reach between your legs.

                After his hand first brushes against your panel, you do your best not to react. Just an accidental touch, perhaps, no excuse for you to move things forward faster than he wants them to move. But his hand stays right against you, his palm pressing insistently against your spike casing. You still do your best to wait, to give him the chance to slow down or reconsider. But then he boots up his vocalizer, and through the static manages, “Will– Can I–?” And you stop trying to fight it.

                When you allow your panel to slide open, he pulls back far enough that you have to break the kiss. You’re left watching him as he watches your spike pressurize. And again, you can’t help smiling at him. You won’t pretend that the look in his optics isn’t flattering. When he tries to take your spike in hand, his fingers don’t even come close to meeting. He runs his hand up and down your spike, his optics still wide and disbelieving, and you rest your hands on his waist and just watch him.

                But then his paneling opens, he goes up higher on his knees, and begins to reposition his spike between your legs, and—No.

                He looks so wounded when you hold him back from trying to take your spike. “You don’t—?”

                “You’re going to hurt yourself like that,” you tell him frankly. You begin to reach a hand between his legs, and pause. “May I?”

                He nods so eagerly that you don’t have the heart to tell him that your spike is almost certainly too large for him. Not without extensive mods—and you doubt any respectable medic would have carried out those procedures on a patient who didn’t know what he was getting into. And as it happens, your spike isn’t even the half of it. You’re doing your best to carefully feel out Tailgate’s equipment—not the easiest task with his valve dripping lubricant onto your fingers and Tailgate struggling to stay still every time your hand bumps against his node or spike. It’s even less easy when you’re trying to ignore the little noises he makes whenever you touch him. But really, you should have thought of this sooner. It was irresponsible of you not to consider. He isn’t large, and his valve is so small and so tight— In truth, you’re not even certain you can get one of your fingers inside of him without risking damage.

                When you tell him that, it takes him a long moment to understand. But then he slumps and looks away. “Oh, I—guess I’ll be going, then? That was pretty dumb. I—sorry.”

                One of your hands is still on his waist, though, and the other is still between his legs. When you crook your fingers against him, he jumps and shivers. You can feel the heat of his valve against your hand. Slowly, carefully, you say, “If you are so inclined, there are… _other_ options open to you, even with these restrictions in place.”

                He looks at you, disbelieving, for a moment. And then he blurts, “ _Yes_.” A nanoklik of silence he laughs nervously and adds, “Please.”

                You smile and bend your mouth to him again. As large as your fingers may be compared to his, there is a great deal that can be done with lips and glossa against sensitive plate edges. And you let your hand rock against his valve. Gentle and undemanding, just a slow slide of fingers against his node and his valve. Back and forth, letting one finger slip between the lips of his valve, gliding along against him. You maintain that slow pace even while he tentatively starts to work his hips down against you. He angles himself forward, presses his node into your finger, grinds against your hand. You can’t see his face, not while you’re occupied with tracing his biolights with your glossa—but you can hear the quiet, helpless noises he’s making while you touch him.

                You can feel the gradual, steady climb to his overload. His hips jerk forward, faster and faster. Tailgate clutches at your shoulders to brace himself as he moves against you. His rhythm gets erratic and unsteady, but you keep your tortuously slow pace until he finally gasps, “Please—I _can’t_ —”

                And then you have mercy. When you work your fingers against him, you can hear him sob into your audio input, but he throws his arms around your neck and clings tight as he presses his valve into your hand. You get a finger properly against his node and that does it, that’s what tips him over the edge. He shakes against you as the overload takes him, and you can feel him spilling transfluid against your stomach.

                As the aftershocks leave, you stay where you are. Your hand is still against his valve, but you don’t make the first move to break apart. You wait until he shifts, untangles his arms from around your neck, and pulls back. Then you drop your hand from between his legs. You don’t miss the little shiver it sends through his frame.

                Tailgate is quiet, at first. He isn’t meeting your optics, just looking down at his hands, your chest, anything that isn’t your face. Regrets, perhaps? But when he talks, you can hear the laughter bubbling up through his vocalizer. “That was— _wow_. That was. _Very_ wow. It was _incredible_.” He’s laughing outright now, and when he looks up and meets your optics, you can’t hold back your own smile. Hopefully, he adds, “I don’t suppose…. I could get another? Maybe? If it isn’t too much trouble?”

                You laugh too. “Another overload?” You run your hands down his legs, up his inner thighs, enjoying the way it makes him shiver against you. “I think we may be able to work something out.”

                You wrap an arm around Tailgate’s back to hold him steady, and swing your legs up onto the berth. He grabs at your collar for support, but by the time you settle onto your back on the berth with your hands on his waist, he’s laughing again. He straddles your hips and braces himself against your stomach while you lay back and look him over. It’s the first proper look you’ve been able to get at him since he climbed into your lap. If you had any lingering worries that he might be unhappy or uncomfortable, well. There’s certainly no need for that anymore.

                And while you’re occupied with looking him over, he’s doing much the same to you. You can see his optics drop from your face, travel down over your chest and stomach—and stop at your spike. He runs a single finger along it, from tip to base, stopping just shy of your node. You can feel your grip tighten on his waist. Your valve is dripping onto the berth, you’re almost sure.

                Tailgate doesn’t take his optics from your spike, but he wraps both hands around it and says, “Um. Can I—?”

                You aren’t entirely certain what he’s asking, but you’re already saying, “ _Yes_ ,” regardless.

                He lifts himself up and moves his hips over your spike—You’re afraid for a moment that he intends to try to take you in his valve, but there’s no need for concern. He pins your spike against your stomach, settles himself against it, and rocks his hips forward against you, _along_ the length of your spike.

                It surprises a gasp out of you, and Tailgate laughs, the sound almost choked out by static. You can hear your own fans spinning up faster and faster. Feeling him moving himself against you, the way he’s barely even large enough to straddle your waist—It’s hard to focus on anything but the wet slide of his valve against your spike. His hands are still both wrapped around your spike, a steady point of pressure while he rocks himself back and forth against you. His head is thrown back and you can hear his little vocalizations, see the way his optics flicker offline.

                Your hands are almost shaking with the effort of not taking him and pulling him down harder against you, but you force yourself not to move. You leave them resting on his hips, your fingers teasing gently at the plates you can reach. His fans are blasting heat against you and you can feel the tremble in his legs as he works himself against your spike.

                When you take one hand from his waist and delicately take his spike between two fingers, that finishes him. He cries out, curling forward towards you as the overload sweeps through him. This one last longer than the first one. He sobs and shakes while you stroke his spike, and you can feel his valve clenching against your spike. It’s too much, entirely too much. You arch off the berth, your free arm sliding around his back to hold him against you. You overload to the feeling of his hands on you, his valve against your spike.

                You come back to yourselves together. You’re still on your back in your berth, Tailgate still seated across your waist. You’ve made a mess of yourself, but your spike has retreated, and your panel has closed. Tailgate is in similar condition. He’s braced himself against your stomach again while he carefully doesn’t look you in the face. He’s occupied with tracing out all the armor plates within reach. You rather think he’s nerving himself into asking you something and sit, waiting patiently for him to talk. You aren’t certain what to do with your hands, and finally settle for resting them on Tailgate’s legs.

                Eventually, he resets his vocalizer and says, “I also… heard you’ve never eaten valve before?”

                It surprises you into a laugh.

                But Tailgate doesn’t try to leave this time. He stays where he is, laughing right back. “You can prove that it’s wrong! Really! I won’t mind at all!”

                You move your hands up to his waist and smile up at him. “I’m sure you’ve heard any number of rumors. And I’d be glad to disprove just as many of them as you’d like.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/146172624786/relationship-megatrontailgate-rating-explicit)


	39. Cyclonus/Tailgate/Whirl: Orgasm Denial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/147787409091/relationship-cyclonustailgatewhirl-words-3560)

          Not to be vain—not to be _unjustifiably_ vain—but let’s be real here. You’re the best there is at what you do. Not murder! Though, to be fair, you are really, _really_ good at murder. No, no, no, you’re talking about running your mouth (which you don’t have! no mouth! that’s the punchline). And look at you being a multitasker and a professional (not actually a professional, nobody pays you to be annoying, you do it for the love of the game), because even while you’re maintaining a delightful internal monologue, you haven’t stopped talking.

          To be fair, you do know how to _not_ talk. Really, Tailgate should have known better than to tell you that the rules were no talking allowed. You think Cyclonus knew better, but! He’s not the one in charge, _is_ he. He doesn’t know it—no, Cyclonus totally knows it. _Tailgate_ is just the one who doesn’t realize who the boss is, hahaha. And ooh, first Tailgate tried to get you to follow the rules, then he tried ignoring you, and it’s looking like he’s swung back around to getting you to follow the rules again.

          “Whirl,” he starts. Oh nooo, it’s the frowny voice! The worst weapon! HA, you’re giddy and you don’t even care. “ _Whirl_ , you aren’t supposed to be talking— I _told_ you that you had to stay quiet—”

          You know, you should totally steal Rung’s eyebrows sometime so Tailgate can wear them when he’s being Angry at you. Won’t work now, you don’t have Rung, and your arms _are_ tied behind your back, which makes things a _little_ complicated. You mean— you _could_ ask to borrow them, sure, or make some separate eyebrows just for Tailgate (if you want to be _extra_ lame), but. It’s really not the same unless you steal them, is it. And you’re still talking too. Brain to vox box, no filter! _Nobody_ no-filters as well as you. You’ve worked for orns and orns to have as little filter as you do, you should really get more credit for all the effort you’ve put in. A genius unrecognized in his own time, that’s you.

          Aw, and Tailgate is still doing an angry thing at you. Not _angry_ -angry, but, you know. The thing. Where you’re supposed to realize he’s angry and be all disappointed in yourself and fall into line. That thing.

          Eventually he vocalizes a little sigh and takes his hand off your spike. He reaches up to grab onto your face and pull your head down so you’re actually looking him in the optics. He says, “I would gag you, you know. If I could.”

          That’s it! No mouth! Yes! Your punchline! So beautiful. It would bring a little tear to your eye, if you had eyeballs or tear pipes. Is that what they’re called? You can never keep your xeno anatomy straight. HA, you can’t focus and you don’t caaaaaaaaare~

          “ _Whirl_ ,” Tailgate tries again. “I need you to listen, or I’ll have to—”

          But then Cyclonus pulls his hand out of your chest (lame! he wasn’t touching anything good yet, but. _still_ ), takes Tailgate’s hand, and gently pulls it away. He gives you a hard look— you don’t return it. You’re _much_ too busy looking off into that Very Interesting corner of the hab suite. So interesting. You’re completely engaged, no, really!

          And Cyclonus says, “Don’t. He wants you to punish him.”

          You do manage not to look at him, but you can feel your spark flare up white-hot and furious. For a moment, you wonder if they can _see_ it—they can’t, if your spark acted the way it _feels_ , your chest would probably have exploded and you’d be a little bit dead. It’s not fair. If he can guess, if he _knows_ , he’s not allowed to just _say_ it like that.

          Fine. _Fine_ . Fine. You’ve got this. Nobody suspects a thing. Just ignore that look on Cyclonus’s face that says he knows every little thing you’re up to, nobody suspects a _thing_.

          You don’t miss the way Tailgate shifts his weight back into Cyclonus for a moment. The way he tilts his head up and leans against him. The way Tailgate’s fingers wrap around Cyclonus’s, right next to where your chest paneling splits and your spark chamber lies open. Tailgate’s knees still bump up against your legs, where you’re kneeling, and his other hand is still on your spike. Focus on that.

          And eventually, _finally_ , they stop getting lost in each other’s optics and remember that you’re in the room. Tailgate still doesn’t know what to do with you, but it’d be a lot more fun if he was even more lost. Cheating ruins the game for everyone, _Cyclonus_.

          Also. Hm. You accidentally shut up somewhere along the way. Not what you meant to do, but no going back now. There’s nothing for it but to pretend that his was totally your plan this whole time. Ha _ha!_ Little did they know that they were playing right into your claws.

          Once they finally, _finally_ untangle their hands, Cyclonus dips his claws back into your chest. You’ve got, let’s be real here, a _pretty_ awesomely huge chest to play with, and you bet he and Tailgate could both get their hands in there with no problem, but—no, Tailgate isn’t going for it. He reaches up for your face again, gets his hand around the back of your head and tugs you down. Optic contact or no optic contact? Yes? No? What’s he going for here? And—oh. He just nuzzles the side of his face up against yours for a moment before letting you go. Man, if he keeps this up, you’re going to start feeling bad that you’re such an asshole, unfair.

          At least after that, he just goes back to playing with your spike. That’s _much_ easier. Better. Word. Thing. Point is, you know what to do with that. What you do is sit there and take it. So easy even you can do it! Plus, now that you’ve decided that not-talking means you’re winning, you can may attention to all the little things. Like how Tailgate has to use both hands to get a proper grip on your spike, _Primus_ is that adorable.

          Or, or, or. You can pay attention to Cyclonus. He’s got one hand all up in your chest, sure, but there he’s just toying with all the internal components that _protect_ your spark, just totally ignoring your _actual_ spark, the one that’s sitting _right there_ , waiting to be touched—It’s enough to make a mech feel unwanted, it really is! You’d send him all the saddest human comm faces if you had a datapad right now, and watch him be overdignified and confused. Wait, focus. Paying attention to Cyclonus. And his hands. _Oh,_ right—because one hand is in you. And he’s got the other hand between Tailgate’s legs.

          Now, ‘cute’ seems a little understated right now, but— come on. It is _the_ perfect word for Tailgate. His spike is out, you can just see it between Cyclonus’s thumb and hand. And you don’t have the right angle to _see_ , but. Not to give away any trade secrets, but Tailgate is definitely making his Cyclonus-is-fingering-me-right-at-this-very-moment noises. _Nice_.

          You jerk, and nearly _almost_ make a noise when Cyclonus’s claws scrape against the surface of your spark. You have to fight not to lean harder into that touch. You still haven’t forgotten about who ruined things earlier, you’re not giving him the satisfaction of proving him _right_! Besides, come on. You know what you want, he knows what you want, and he likes giving it to you. And claws aside, Cyclonus is _always_ going to feel good like this. When Tailgate gets his hands in your chest, it can be hard not to wriggle away, because he feels all alive and bubbly against your spark, like drinking an energon spritz, but _more_. Even when Cyclonus isn’t playing the way you like and using his claws, having him against your spark burns in the best way, like drinking pure quadruple-filtered engex.

          Tailgate always starts to lose his rhythm when he gets close to overloading, and that’s what’s happening now. He keeps his hands on your spike while Cyclonus fingers him. Cyclonus’s other hand stills in your chest, just five pinpricks of contact against your spark while he turns his attention to Tailgate. You can’t really blame him. You’re watching Tailgate too. The way he arches back against Cyclonus, trying to work his hips down against Cyclonus’s hand. And from here, you can see the way Cyclonus teases him, moving with him instead of against him, making him struggle to find the touches he’s after. And you can see the way Cyclonus looks at Tailgate, the way his face actually softens into something that doesn’t look like it’s made of pure 200% disapproval. You go back to looking at Tailgate.

          It doesn’t take long for him to overload, his spike spilling transfluid all along your thighs and stomach. You were close, and now you’re closer. If Tailgate will just _touch_ you—He will and he does. His hands never left your spike, and as his fans spin down, blasting hot air against your legs, he goes back to touching you.

          He does take one hand off your spike— but before you can decide if you want to argue, it turns out it’s because he’s decided he wants to touch your valve too. Yes, yes, this is good, you are on board with this decision. He gets two fingers up inside you without any trouble at all, and his palm is bumping up against your node every time you move your hips. He can’t properly hold your spike like this— but he can pin it against your stomach, stroking it with one hand. His optics are on your face. You’re _so close_.

          And—no. Just when you’re there, just when you’re _almost nearly there—_ Cyclonus takes his hand out of your chest, takes his hand from between Tailgate’s legs— and he stops him. He pulls Tailgate’s hands from your spike and valve, and you were _so close_ , just one nanoklik more and you would have had it. And Tailgate’s just _letting_ him do this—it’s not like there are turns, but there are _definitely_ turns, and it was _your_ turn, and it’s _not fair_.

          It’s not like they’re even doing anything either. Just. Holding hands and looking at you. Not very sensitive to the _manually challenged_ who might happen to be in the room, is it? _Is it?_ You’re wounded, so very wounded. You find your Extremely Interesting corner of the hab suite again and give it your full attention. It’s better than looking at the way they tuck themselves into each other so nicely. Don’t mind you, you’re just sitting here, awkwardly on display. Untouched (not strictly true, Tailgate’s legs still bump up against yours). You wonder if it would be _too_ spiteful to close up your spark chamber, since nobody can apparently be bothered to _do_ anything with it. But also if you close it up, nobody _will_ do anything with it. Come on, they’ve got all the time in the world to be like this with each other, and you just want one little overload, is that so much to ask for?

          It takes _f o r e v e r_ , but eventually Cyclonus decides that touching you is allowed, or whatever. He whispers something to Tailgate that you don’t quite catch. But! It has to be good, because they reach out for you again. _Ha_ , that has to count as a victory for you. Half a victory, at least. Or maybe just a quarter, because they might be touching you, but they’re not _touching you_ . You’re still more than halfway to overload, and it shouldn’t be hard to take you over that peak. If. You know. They were actually trying. But Cyclonus is barely, _barely_ playing with your spark, just one single clawtip, so gentle you can barely feel it. And Tailgate isn’t doing much better with your spike. There’s no real pressure, no rhythm you can chase, nothing. And Cyclonus’s other hand is back between Tailgate’s legs, because of course it is. You don’t know why you’re even surprised.

          Honestly, even with the half-assed job they’re doing with you, you _should_ be able to finish like this. _Should_. You get a little shameless. Maybe you pull a bit extra at the cuffs holding your arms behind your back. Maybe you imagine that Cyclonus reached into your throat and took out your vox box, and you couldn’t beg for more, even if you wanted to. And maybe you lean into Cyclonus’s claw, let it scrape across your spark harder than he means it to.

          And then! When you’re so, _so close_ , for the second time! What does Cyclonus do? Takes his hand away from your spark. _Again_ . He wraps that arm around Tailgate’s chest and pulls him up into his lap, and—ignores you. Completely. _Both_ of them ignore you.

          You feel—wrong. All over. Interface array, head, spark, fuel tank. You feel like _headache_ , but all over. And Tailgate and Cyclonus only have optics for each other. Tailgate’s legs don’t even butt up against yours anymore. Cyclonus is sitting back on his heels, one arm still around Tailgate’s chest. Tailgate’s legs are spread wide around Cyclonus’s hips, while Cyclonus fingers him. You might not have had a good view before, but now you’ve got the best seats in the house. Awesome, or whatever. You pull at your cuffs again, but it’s no good. Your shoulders will give out before you manage to break them.

          So yeah, nothing to do but kick your metaphorical heels while you wait for this part of the proceedings to be over. You get it, okay? You’re not part of this… _this_ , you’re here for them to have some fun. Which is good! Because that’s why you’re here too! But your definition of fun doesn’t really cover sitting here by yourself, watching them do things they could have done just fine without pulling you into the mix. Come on, they could have put Tailgate on your spike, or used your valve, _something_.

          Round two for Tailgate takes a little longer than round one. You watch, because one, you’re not a total killjoy, and two, you’re still _so close_ if they'd just let you _finish_ , and you’re not going to say no to a hot show like this one. Hands-free overload, maybe? Yes? No? Yeah, that’s a no.

          Eventually, Tailgate does overload all over Cyclonus’s hands. Again. But they’re not exactly fast to get back to business. They just sit there for a few long moments, all wrapped up in each other, and like _hell_ are you going to say anything first. Nope. Not happening. You can hear both their fans running hot, but it still takes ages for them to untangle themselves from each other. Honestly, at this point, you’re a little surprised they don’t just go ahead and recharge together and forget you’re even in the room.

          No, they’re not quite that bad. And when Cyclonus finally lets Tailgate go, the first thing Tailgate does is go back to you. That’s—something, at least. And Cyclonus settles in behind him, and they’re both _looking_ at you again. And you’re close, you’re still _so close_ , it only takes a few little touches before you’re back on the edge of overload again. You don’t know why you’re even surprised when Cyclonus reaches out to pull Tailgate’s hands away.

          You’re kind of—numb, maybe?—as you watch them. Cyclonus still has Tailgate’s hands. Tailgate isn’t acting like there’s anything wrong with that. Of _course_ he’s not. They’re holding hands. Why would Tailgate have a problem with Cyclonus holding his hands? Not like he was doing anything _better_ with them, was he? And Cyclonus bends down to whisper something to Tailgate, too soft for you to make it out. The angle’s all wrong for Tailgate to whisper back, at least. They can just talk out loud like normal mechs. Come _on_.

          And… no. At least they don’t start a private whisper conversation, but it’s not like you feel much more included this way. They’re still holding hands. Cyclonus is still whispering to Tailgate. You still can’t hear what he’s saying. But you can still see his stupid fragging smile, and you can still _see_ the way they’re not even remembering you’re in the room. Your frame is still spun up, but—you don’t even care anymore. You don’t _care._ You know that you’re the piece that doesn’t belong, okay? You _get_ that they don’t even like you, not really. Okay? You _get_ it. All you want, the only thing you want, is either to get your one stupid overload, or you want to be able to _leave_ . It’s not fair. It’s not fair for them to do this and love each other so much in front of you and rub it in your face that you don’t fit. It _hurts_.

          You still haven’t decided whether it’s going to be worse to say something or to not say something when Tailgate glances up and gets a look at your face. “ _Cyclonus_ ,” he says.

          Well. Their focus is on you again. You’re not sure if you want that, if you _don’t_ want that, whatever, _anything_ . You don’t _know_. You just want someone else to make decisions for you. And hey, Tailgate seems on top of that. He grabs Cyclonus’s hands, sets them right on your interface array. He reaches up to take your face in both hands, and pulls you down until your head is resting against his. You let yourself lean into him. Because he put you there, so it’s okay, right? And once you’re settled where he wants you, he puts both hands in your chest and gets his hands on your spark.

          They don’t let up this time. It’s so much, _too_ much, and you don’t want them to stop—which is good, because they definitely aren’t stopping. Cyclonus has your spike in one hand and a finger on your node, while Tailgate has shifted forward to straddle your thighs and get his hands even deeper inside you. Cyclonus teased you with his claws before, but Tailgate has his hands wrapped around you as much as he can reach, and it’s hard to even keep your optics online anymore, when all you can feel inside you is Tailgate and Cyclonus’s hands are still on you, and you’ve been so close for so long—

          You definitely offline for a few nanokliks there. Your optic comes on, and your chronometer has skipped ahead, and you’re slumped forward over Tailgate, with Cyclonus holding all of you upright. Your spike has already depressurized and your panel has closed, but your interface array feels almost numb from so much _everything_. And your brain isn’t doing much better. It’s hard to think like this.

          Which you don’t have to do! Thinking is optional. You’re opting out. Too much trouble. So you stay right where you are, draped all over Tailgate and as many bits of Cyclonus as you can reach. It works, too. After a little while, Cyclonus slips away and comes back with a cloth to clean off the mess you all made of the berth, and Tailgate is left to try to take off your cuffs and wrestle you into a position where you can actually recharge. He does a good job, considering you’ve decided to see just how boneless and unhelpful you can manage to be.

          He doesn’t get you _settled-_ settled until after Cyclonus comes back to the berth. You’re—hm. Not wordsing too well. Not your fault, you’re tired. So you can’t quite find the processor power to figure out what they’re saying to each other, but it works out. Once Cyclonus lays down, Tailgate manages to swing you around to lie down next to him, despite your very sneaky last-minute effort to slither over the edge of the berth. It’s fine, you didn’t _especially_ want to fall on the floor—but it would totally have been hilarious. Next time. Plus, you’re pretty sure they’re going to have to move you, because there isn’t enough room between you and Cyclonus for Tailgate to fit.

          Not an issue, as it happens. Which is—different. But once you’re there, shoulder to shoulder with Cyclonus, Tailgate steps over your legs and lays down on your other side. Tucks himself up under your arm, against your cockpit and everything. Cyclonus is as stiff as a board, as usual. As humorless in sleep as he is awake. And usually Tailgate goes right in between you two, and you fit perfectly around him. But you’re in the middle today, you guess. Feels like it’s almost got to be some kind of mistake, but it’s sure not a mistake that makes any sense. Cyclonus is right there, shoulder to shoulder with you. And Tailgate is right there on your other side, with one arm across your stomach, right under your guns. So it’s not usual. And it feels like a mistake. But you’ll take it. You dim your optic, feel that contact on your left and right again, and let yourself sink into recharge.


	40. Fortress Maximus/Prowl: Wet/Messy/Dirty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/149237892036/relationship-fortress-maximusprowl-rating)

Your spark feels like it’s about to explode out of your frame, and it’s all you can do to keep from pacing, but your mind has never been so clear in your whole life. You’ve cut Sentinel’s plan off at the knees, and there’s nothing for it now but to wait for his next move. Post and riposte. With the resources you currently have at your disposal (you), you can’t afford to overextend yourself fighting with shadows. You catch yourself drumming your fingers on the table and push yourself to your feet and walk to the other side of the room.

Fortress Maximus is still at work on his console. _Pretending_ to be at work on his console. His body language couldn’t be more obvious. All his attention is on you. Is he still angry about, what, Garrus-9? Who cares about _Garrus-9_ at a time like this??

The room is large. Tyrest might have had a larger staff of neutrals when he began to broker his accord, but that all changed once he began to sequester himself away. It doesn’t look like Fortress Maximus has done much better for himself. Everything but that one central console is covered in dust. And Fortress Maximus is still watching you. Honestly, he isn’t even doing a decent job of pretending to work. That’s just insulting.

So you speak up. “Empty,” you say.

You’re watching closely enough to see the flash of annoyance on his face. Point in your favor. “What?”

“The room,” you say. You trace a deliberate line through the dust covering an offline console. “It’s very empty. I suppose you don’t have much to keep you busy?”

He spins his chair to face you. He isn’t pretending to pay attention to his work anymore _and_ he isn’t bothering to hide his irritation. More points in your favor. “I have many duties and responsibilities as the--”

“As the duly appointed enforcer of the Tyrest Accord, yes.” You’re leaving marks in the dust of every console and desk you pass as you walk. “But no help? So surely the workload can’t be too overwhelming.”

“There’s Red Alert,” he says. Stiffly. “Cerebros. Outrigger.”

“Well. Three whole assistants. I suppose I must have been mistaken.”

How long will he let that sit? He turns to keep his eyes on as you pace about the room. And to his credit, he holds out for longer than you expected before he finally says, “And you?”

“Mm?”

He repeats, “And you? I’m sure you have a few subordinates who could be spared to help with something as important as whatever it is you’re doing here. Or at the very least, you must have a few _old friends_ who haven’t changed their hailing frequencies without telling you.”

 _Chromedome_ , you think. Your spark aches. Not now.

“I wanted to personally stay on top of this,” you tell him. “If I let it get out of hand-- Well, who knows how long it would take to resolve? It would be a while before I could spare anyone to help you, maybe even two or three years--”

You’re walking tantalizingly close to Fortress Maximus’s console. You can see it in his optics when he snaps. He surges to his feet and grabs you by the arms before you can even get your hands up. He slams you on your back on the nearest desk, scattering datapads. And then he freezes, still furious, pinning you, his optics locked on yours. You can hear him ventilating hard. You’re overflowing with energy with nowhere for it to _go_ , and it spills out of you in hysterical laughter that just won’t stop.

You do manage to cut the laughter off by reaching up to grab him by the finials and dragging his face down to yours. He bites you. Which is just fine, because you’re biting him right back. When he shoves his glossa into your mouth, you wrap your arms around his neck, dragging him down harder against you. More and more of his weight comes to bear on your chest, until you’re not sure you could fight your way free if you tried.

Like this, you don’t have a hand to spare for your panel. Not an issue, as it happens. Your panel opens just fine on its own, your spike pressurizing against Fortress Maximus’s stomach. You can feel him groan against your mouth. And then you can hear the sound as _his_ panel snaps open.

When his hips jerk against yours and you feel his spike sliding against your valve, you arch up against him and wrap your legs around his, do your best to drag him even closer. But he pulls away. Breaks the kiss to brace himself on his elbows. Pushes himself upright. Eventually, he stands, dazed, looking down at you. You can see his spike, like this. It’s thicker than your _wrist_.

You’re still there on the desk, your hands resting beside your head. Your legs are still around his. You’re shamelessly splayed open, just letting him _watch_ you.

“Go on,” you sneer. “Or are you _afraid_?”

He looks from your face to your valve, back to your face. He says, “Don’t be an idiot. You _can’t_.”

 _“_ _Prove it_.”

He almost does it. He _almost_ does it. You can feel his hips move forward. You can feel his spike beginning to press against your valve. And then he sharply shakes his head and pulls away. But you don’t even have time to be disappointed before he shoves two massive fingers into you, no preparation, no warning. It’s _nearly_ as good as his spike would have been.

At first, you do your best to work your hips down against his hand, fighting for more contact, more _everything_. Your legs are still tight around his hips. But he brings his free hand up to your waist and pins you hard against the desk.

Fortress Maximus watches your face while he works his fingers in and out of you. His mouth is a thin, flat line and you can’t read his optics. You don’t _care_ about reading his optics. You care about the way it feels when his fingers stretch your valve wide. You care about the way he hits your ceiling node when his fingers are buried inside of you. You care about the way his palm rubs against your node when he moves.

It doesn’t take you long to overload. You can feel it coming, but it still surprises a noise out of you. You put a hand over your mouth while you shake through the rest of it, because if you start laughing again, you don’t think you’ll know how to stop. Your spike leaves transfluid all over your chest and stomach, and you can feel your valve fighting to clench around his fingers.

After it’s over, you drop your legs from around Fortress Maximus’s hips, let them fall even wider open. You relax right where you are and leer up at him. When he pulls his fingers out of you, you can see your lubricant all over them. The two of you watch each other for a long moment, and then you deliberately drop your optics down to his spike.

You can see the way his mouth twists for a split second, but he still reaches down to take his spike in hand. He’s still standing between your legs, but he leans further forward, looming over you. He braces himself on the desk with his free hand, and jerks himself off hard and fast. You can hear how fast his fans are running and feel the hot air he’s venting, but he doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t look away from your face either, not until he gasps and curls forward so far his helmet almost touches yours. You can feel it when his spike spills more transfluid all over you.

It takes a few long seconds for him to remember himself And then he pushes away from the desk, takes two uncertain steps backwards. You sit up and look down at yourself. Reach up to touch the transfluid on your chest.

He stares at you openly while you watch him obliquely. You wait for him to break the silence. You’re more than happy to sit here as long as it takes. You let him look at the mess he’s made of you. The mess he’s made of the desk. All of it.

But the first person to speak is-- whatever his name was. Cerebros. From the hallway outside. When he calls for Fortress Maximus, you see the duly appointed enforcer of the Tyrest Accord jump. Flinch. He turns away from you, and you can see the slight, slight tremor in his hands. He takes a few quick steps to his desk and rummages for a moment before he finds what he’s looking for. He shoves a cloth into your hands before he calls back to Cerebros. And now, Fortress Maximus can’t seem to bring himself to look at you. You clean yourself off idly, and drop the dirty cloth down on the desk just before Cerebros turns the corner into the room and sees you and Fortress Maximus there, together.


	41. Chromedome/Prowl: Emotion Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Casual alcohol use, background death, unhealthy grief coping mechanisms
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/149257597721/relationship-chromedomeprowl-rating-mature)

After Chromedome’s conjunx dies, you wait a… _tasteful_ number of days before going to see him. Once you receive word on official channels, you wait four days to set your shuttle on a course for his ship. That makes it six days until you dock. Definitely within tasteful bounds. And you bring a bottle of engex too. Nicer than you should be buying, on your pay grade, but worth it, for-- for this.

You have to ask a few people before someone finally can point you to where Chromedome is right now. When the door to the uppermost observation deck opens for you, Chromedome is the only one in the room. And even then, you hesitate. Fight the urge to turn and flee. You argue with yourself for only a moment, but it’s long enough for him to turn and notice you. And then there’s nothing for it, is there. You force yourself to step forward.

It’s only a few steps, hardly enough time to collect yourself. But you do your best. You don’t quite manaIe to look him in the optics when you say, “I heard--about Pivot. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Pivot?” You look sharply up at him, but his face is blank. “Who? Unless-- _Oh_ , unless you mean Breeze?”

Chromedome makes a playful grab for the engex you’re carrying, and you’re off-balance enough that you let him take it. He continues, “But I’ll still take _this_. Breeze—He was more of a colleague than a friend, but… yeah. That was a shame. But after losing so many friends, you start running out of energy to really grieve for the acquaintances, you know?”

You’re completely adrift. You’re not sure you’ve ever been this confused in your entire life. Chromedome is turning the bottle, looking over the label as he talks. And suddenly, you can’t look away from his fingers. He wouldn’t-- _couldn’t._ Could he? But your mind is racing as fast as it can, and you can’t think of any other explanation.

“ _Prowl_ ,” Chromedome says, “This is too expensive. You shouldn’t have.”

You collect yourself. Make a half-hearted grab for the engex that Chromedome easily dodges. “I brought that to _share_ , so really, it’s a treat for myself, not you--”

He’s dangling the engex just out of your reach. You know this game, he wants to make you look silly, but-- It feels so much like it used to between you and him that you can’t help playing along. He’s holding you off with one arm while you reach across his chest for the bottle, and you’re watching him laugh, and _you shouldn’t_ , but it slips out of you before you can help it-- “I miss you so much.”

He pauses. Watches you for a long moment. You’re frozen. He presses the engex back into your hands. You’re doing your best to keep your face steady. This-- was a mistake. All of it. Everything.

But Chromedome says, “Come on, _hold this_ , I’m the only one of us who knows how to lock that door.”

Your hands feel like they’re detached from your body, free-floating, _something_ , but you still manage to uncork the bottle before Chromedome comes back from taking care of the door. You even brought a straw for him. Just-- Just in case. In case things went better than you’d have expected in any plausible universe. Which has apparently happened. You’re just slipping the straw into the bottle when Chromedome steps up beside you and bumps his shoulder up against yours.

It feels unreal when he takes the bottle from you and slides down to sit on the floor. It feels even more unreal when he reaches up to grab your hand and pull you down beside him. You pass the bottle back and forth without talking for a while. When your hand bumps up against his, he doesn’t pull away. You fight the urge to look him over for mnemosurgery marks. Even if you know, you don’t want to _know_.

Once half the bottle is gone, you can feel the engex really beginning to get to you. Some part of you--a _significant_ part of you--knows that you really shouldn’t say anything right now and ruin the moment. You really shouldn’t. Your better judgment and common sense argue that it would be much better to keep your mouth shut right now. But increasing amounts of very fine engex say that better judgment and common sense can go get _fragged_.

The bottle is almost gone when you finally blurt, “ _Chromedome--”_

But before you can go on, he puts an unsteady hand over your mouth. “Shh. Nope. I can already tell you’re going to make this ten times as complicated as it needs to be. _Twenty_ times.”

You’re about to make an extremely eloquent and persuasive argument that you have _never_ done any such thing. But you’re a little distracted. Because Chromedome is setting aside the empty engex bottle. And turning towards you. Pushing you back against the floor and bracing himself over you.

 _Pivot_ , your brain says. _Your conjunx is dead_ , you think. But the words don’t make it to your mouth. Instead, your hands come up to rest uncertainly against Chromedome’s back as he moves to straddle your hips.

When he leans down to rest his forehead against yours, you’re lost. You hold him against you as tightly as you can manage and bury your face against his neck. He laughs, kindly, and lies down, letting his body rest against yours.

From there, it’s a dizzying blur. Your mouth is on him, everywhere you can reach. His hands are all over your frame in a way you thought they’d never be again. You’re backing up every touch, every word, every sensation, in multiple locations in your neocortex. Your legs are a messy tangle with his, but you can’t bring yourself to pull away, even an inch.

You’re pressed too close to each other for him to do more than get a hand between your legs. It’s fine. More than fine. It’s _perfect_. You manage to get one of your hands on his valve, and the two of you stay tangled together just like that, moving together. It feels like it only lasts for one short moment, even though your chronometer tells you otherwise. And when you finally, reluctantly pull away, he stays lying beside you, one hand resting idly on your chest.

The few days you can spare to spend on his ship pass… similarly. You ignore the dirty looks the other crewmembers give you. And you never mention Pivot again.

And then even after you have to leave, you can’t help thinking that as soon as the Autobots retake Cybertron--it won’t be long, you _know_ it won’t--perhaps after that, you can find a way to station yourself near Chromedome. Find a way to start over. Rebuild. _Together_.


	42. Overlord/Trepan: Mind Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for sketchy consent, potential eye body horror (lobotomy-type imagery), and threats of finger body horror. These are two horrible people being sexy with each other.
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6320311/chapters/18075949)

The moment Overlord gets his hands on you, you know it’s over. When he tucks you up under his arm and carries you out of the operation suite, you’re as good as dead. And by the time he makes it to his shuttle and starts up the engines, well. It’s only a matter of time until the end, isn’t it.

A bit of a shock, to say the least. Though at this point, there isn’t really much to be done. You don’t think he even notices when you try to struggle free. And once he drops you unceremoniously on the floor of his shuttle so he can pilot the ship up through the atmosphere, he doesn’t so much as give you a second glance. You don’t have any weapons. The only gun you see is the one Overlord is still holding. To your credit, you _do_ look to see if you can spot any others. None-- not that it would have done you any good. You’ve see the reports of the _remarkable_ work that Rossum did on him. It is a shame you never got the opportunity to ask Rossum any questions in person.

You expect that Chromedome is probably dead already. Honestly, couldn’t Overlord have taken him instead of you? Though if Overlord is interested in having a mnemosurgeon rather than just a hostage or a plaything, you’re considerably more skilled than Chromedome-- or any other mnemosurgeon he could have hoped to acquire, really.

It doesn’t take long for Overlord to reach open space and set a course. Long enough to come to terms with your fate, you suppose. In some ways, it’s almost a relief. You’ve been in your line of work long enough to see what mnemosurgery does to the surgeon. Eventually. Not that you’d ever be able to give it up! Of course not. There’s nothing to compare to the pleasure of sliding yourself into another mech’s mind and reshaping them any way you please. This is the profession you were always meant to have, the work you were _forged_ to do. Still, though, you’ve seen the way some of your colleagues have gone, and it tended to be, hm. Messy. You can see the appeal of a quick death. Now, before you can be... _reduced_.

So by the time Overlord sets the ships controls and turns to face you, you’re standing calmly in the middle of the floor, watching him. He grins as he stands and takes a single step to close the distance between you. When he takes your head in one hand and tips it up towards him, his fingers wrap almost all the way back around to your face. He’s smiling faintly. _Smugly_. The same expression he’s had in every image you’ve seen of him.

You say, “Can I help you?”

His smile widens. Information, perhaps? Torture? You might have used those moments you had to yourself to purge any number of valuable Autobot secrets from your memory. But really, that would have been a shameful waste of a remarkable mind.

Overlord lets the silence stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable. His timing isn’t terrible, though he isn’t the best player of the game you’ve ever known. Then he drops your head and reaches down to seize both your wrists and drag your hands up between you. “ _This_ ,” he says.

 _Mnemosurgery_ , you think. It’s difficult not to smile. But outwardly, you look blankly at him and ask, “My hands?”

His smirk doesn’t budge. Idly, barely seeming to pay attention, he takes one of your fingers and bends it backward until the joint starts aching. He drops his eyes to your joined hands and says, “I sincerely hope you’re not as much of an idiot as you’re pretending to be.

Ah, and now you don’t even bother trying to hold back that smile back. His grip on your wrists is still painfully tight, but the thrill of _surgery_ , maybe even multiple surgeries-- No matter how little time it takes you to outlive your usefulness, you’ll at least have the chance to enjoy yourself a time or two before you’re killed. “And you’re taking me to the prisoners, I suppose? Or traitors, perhaps. Are you after information, or do you simply need them… remade?”

Overlord drags your wrists upward, so you’re forced to take a half-step toward him. “Oh, no. You misunderstand me.” Another deliberate pause. “You’re going to _teach me._ ”

You confess that you are taken aback for a moment. Long enough that you access the stored memory just to be certain you heard him correctly. But _oh,_ you’ve never smiled like this in your entire life. You’re in a minefield like you’ve never seen before, and you rather doubt there’s any way for you to make it out alive, but, well. You already knew you were as good as dead, didn’t you? And this will be _interesting_.

You incline your head to him. “But of course. If you’ll please kneel?”

And now, _he_ hesitates. “Kneel?”

You barely come up to his waist, so you have to look up quite a ways to meet his optics. “I can hardly imagine how I’m supposed to reach your brain module from all the way down here.”

Overlord doesn’t lash out. But he slowly, slowly flexes your finger backwards again. You ignore the pain. He says, “I warned you once not to pretend to be so stupid.”

“So I should assume that you mean to learn mnemosurgery without ever directly observing the injection process?” You smile again. “A novel approach. Do let me know how well that goes.”

He’s watching you closely. He still hasn’t released your finger. “Nothing I read said anything about that.”

“I imagine most mnemosurgeons are keeping a number of secrets. From each other. From everyone else.” You haven’t dropped your optics from his. “Wouldn’t you?”

Overlord doesn’t move. But you can see the corner of his mouth twitch upward. “Tell me. What’s to stop me from ripping the needles out of your fingers and teaching myself?”

Ah-- now _that_ makes you feel something. The thought of losing your needes-- It’s a visceral, spark-deep ‘ _no’_ that leaves you almost dizzy, but you think you keep it from your face. “It is an option,” you tell him. “A bad option. You’ve never been in a mech’s mind before. You’ll drown. You’ll drown, unless you’ve learned how to separate yourself out, to let it all pass _around_ you. And I promise, those words don’t do it justice. There really is no way to learn but to see it yourself.”

And then, it’s all up to him, isn’t it. You’ve said your piece. He can kill you now. He can try finding workarounds-- they won’t work, you’ve seen enough mnemosurgeons dive in without proper training to know how badly _that_ will go. Or he can listen to you.

You simply watch his face. He’s watching your face, but you have nothing to hide. You’ve told him no lies, and he has no way to guess at anything you might be hiding. You see it in his optics when he decides to take his chances. And he goes to his knees.

The standard entrance through his neck won’t work-- Rossum’s _upgrades,_ of course. Which makes your work more difficult. Though certainly not impossible. You try to shake off Overlord’s hands and step around behind him, saying, “I’ll need you to expose your brain module, of course--”

He drags you back in front of him. “No.”

You’re nonplussed for a moment.

“No,” he continues. “You’re staying right where you are.” He drops your wrists—finally—and sets his hands around your waist instead. “If I feel you changing anything important, I will rip you in half. That won’t kill you outright, so we’ll have plenty of time together to see what else I can do to you before you leak out.”

He isn’t half as stupid as he looks. He’s really done quite well limiting your options. You tap your chin with one finger, considering. You’d wager anything that Rossum left himself some convenient ways through that endoskeleton, but he doesn’t seem to have been considerate enough to pass them on to anyone else before meeting his end. “I think,” you say, “that we’ll have to go through your eyes.”

Overlord doesn’t argue. His smile doesn’t even flicker as you raise your hands and set your thumbs against the top edge of his optics. Only two needles-- it’s a less stable connection than you might want, but you’ll make do. He doesn’t flinch when your needles punch through his glass lenses, and slide past his inner optics. You’re moving slowly, because you’re certainly not planning to snap off your needles against reinforced endoskeleton, and he’s perfectly still until your needles are finally fully extended, and you feel them sink into his brain module.

With only two needles, you’ll have to be careful not to jostle the connection, but you’ve worked under difficult conditions before this. You let yourself fall into the connection, leaving just a sliver of awareness behind to balance yourself, to shift with Overlord as he moves. The rest of you is already digging greedily into his memories. You may never forgive him for stealing a patient like Soundwave away from you, but this is an excellent consolation prize.

The first thing you do is deliberately leak over your exasperation that he decided to kidnap you and not Chromedome-- you can feel his amusement around you like a fine mist. And under that, you let an impression of worry bleed over, concern that your needles might not be able to get past his endoskeleton-- and there it is, you pull on the connection that stirs up, and go straight for his memories of his conversion.

Sadly, you get only a bare moment to process the initial pain and disorientation of the memory—hardly anything at all—before he’s there too, muscling you aside. Clumsy, but rather good for a rank amateur. And more importantly, you can feel his physical hands beginning to dent your sides.

“This is only your warning,” he says. You can hear the words, distantly, but you can feel their echo in his mind too.

Ah well. You tried. You do your best to flip through other interesting memories too—his first memories after being forged, watching Megatron in the gladiator pits, _fighting_ Megatron in the gladiator pits—but everything you sample is met with a flat rejection. You suppose you could look for one of the quieter periods of the war, years spent on conquered planets, on dull, empty moons, waiting for Megatron to call for him again. But how _boring_.

And you’re already a dead mech, aren’t you. Why not spend this time on something more... interesting?

When you first brush up against the arousal centers of his mind, you get a faint ripple of surprise from him. But none of that refusal he responds with when you nudge at his important memories. At this point in your career, it’s as simple as anything to divide your attention. You go off into the memory of an unremarkable space journey, exploring the rooms he remembers as if you’d been there yourself. But you don’t let go of those arousal centers. It’s all gentle touches, very subtle. He still catches on almost immediately. But instead of any refusal or any attempt to shove you away from what you’re doing, you just feel him laugh.

And it’s physical, not just mental. You can feel it echo down your arms as he laughs. And in the memory you’re watching, he turns to look at _you_ , even while he continues his remembered conversation with the captain of the ship. He really is a natural. You flip over to something more distracting. A battle, planetside, just Overlord and a mass of ugly little aliens. You can feel his awareness on you, he certainly recognizes that you’re _there_ , but he can’t quite break away from the scene to turn and face you.

And meanwhile, you stroke his mind, light and teasing, building up that insistent heat inside him, letting it radiate out from his spark. It takes some time. You’re in no rush, and you’re enjoying the show as he decimates the alien army. Because you’re listening for it, you can hear when his cooling fans click on. And in his head, you let the memory play at a memory’s pace. Outside, maybe a klik has passed when he finishes picking off the last of the survivors, and finally manages to break the chains of his memory and turn to you.

So you flip to another memory. Megatron this time, a simple briefing. You’re right behind Overlord, close enough to see the way he struggles to face you. You nudge at him again, urging his systems even hotter. It echoes into the memory too. He still can’t break off his remembered conversation with Megatron, but his cooling fans _here_ click on-- for all the good it will do him. But back in your body, you feel his hands shift around your waist. Just enough for him to get a thumb over your interface array.

Not something you had planned on. But you can’t say you’re strictly averse to it either. There’s something about being _inside_ someone this way-- And as much as you might be light and teasing with Overlord, he’s certainly not doing the same for you. You don’t have to nudge his current thoughts to know this is supposed to be a distraction, and let your amusement bleed over into his mind. And while you’re at it, you share the sensation of hands on your body, applying pressure, rubbing over your array, firm and insistent.

You slide into a new memory. An easy one this time. Just Overlord alone in a shuttle, in transit between systems. There’s nothing significant to hold his attention, and he turns to face you almost immediately. But he stays in his chair, makes no move to stand or move towards you. In your bodies, it’s becoming more and more of a struggle to keep your panel shut. And you share that urgency with him, nudging his engines hotter, simulating the sensation of a gentle touch to his spike, his valve. You dance right around the edges of emulating contact with his node. You can feel his impatience, the desire and demand. He begins to drop a hand to his panel, and you let the memory slide away.

As the distractions mount, it’s easier for him to break away from what he remembers. He turns away from the soldiers he’s briefing with some difficulty, but he does turn. His hand is over his spike casing. But he doesn’t do anything. In your body, you finally allow your panel to open, and your spike pressurizes right against his hand.

The sensory input startles him-- he loses the direction of the memory for a moment, begins to turn back to the soldiers, picking up the conversation they’d been holding even without him. But he collects himself in moments, and without hesitation, takes two long steps to close the distance between you and him. He doesn’t make any move to touch you, just looms over you and watches. As deep in his mind as you are, it isn’t any challenge to feel it when his panel opens.

This could be a bit of a challenge. You nudge him sideways into the memory of a space battle, and let a little more of your attention slip back into your body. Overlord shifts, just as you’re beginning to find your feet again. He rocks back on his heels, and you’re forced to step up between his legs to move with him. Your fingers rest lightly on his cheeks, and your thumbs are still secure in his optics. Even more importantly, his hand is still on your spike. His rhythm could be better—but that will improve with time and practice. He is rather distracted right now. And like this, his spike is… _temptingly_ close.

You don’t have a hand to spare. But why should that stop you? You shift your balance carefully, you’re still halfway in his mind and you don’t want to break your needles over something like him. But you manage to lift one leg and pin his spike against his stomach with your pede. His fans roar as you slide back into his memories.

He’s waiting for you when you find him again. And like before, he doesn’t make a move towards you. But back in your body, you can feel a single finger slip between your valve lips, gliding back and forth, moving against your node. He watches your face closely, and you aren’t sure what he’s looking for. You tip him into a memory of a busy marketplace on Cybertron, and press down with your pede, grinding it against his spike.

It’s enough to make him stumble out of the memory himself, but he manages to drag you with him. Another briefing, this time with Megatron, Sixshot, and Black Shadow. Overlord turns to watch you as you step along the edges of the room. In his body, he’s remarkably still, even though you can feel the heat from his vents and hear how fast his fans are spinning. You step on his spike as hard as you can, while shoving at every memory of sensation you can get your hands on-- fingers, spike, valve, and glossa, all on him, vibration, heat, all of it, all crashing down on him at once. It does the trick. You can feel his hips jerk forward against your pede as he overloads, and you have to slip out of his mind almost entirely to keep your balance as he shifts.

But even while the arousal and sensation floods all the memories you leaf through in his head, he’s still there. Most importantly, his hand is still on your valve. It’s rough and hard, a fingertip pressed against your valve entrance that you _know_ you’re not large enough to take, pushing so hard against your node that it edges on pain, your spike brushing against his palm as he moves his hand against you. It’s easy enough to take all those memories you just used on him, and fall into them yourself. A spike filling you, a valve taking you, lingering on this fantasy or that memory, until finally you hit the tipping point and _overload_.

When you come back to yourself, the first thing you do is take your needles out of his eyes. Frankly, you’re surprised you’ve managed to stay intact for this long, it won’t do to tempt fate just yet. You do take a moment to admire the neat holes you left in his optics.

Overlord stands, and he’s twice your height again, looming over you. He doesn’t speak, only smiles the same way he did when he threatened to kill you. Eventually, you venture, “A satisfactory first lesson?”

That surprises a laugh out of him. “Satisfactory.” He waves a dismissive hand at you as he turns, still smiling, and steps back to the ship’s navigation console. “For a first lesson. Be prepared to perform again soon.”


	43. Megatron/Rodimus: Anonymity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/149914979171/relationship-megatronrodimus-rating-explicit)

It’s a pretty simple scene that you and Megs have planned. Sounds good to you! Less to keep track of, and you still get a nice hard fragging. It’s a win all around. An _extra_ win, because you don’t even have to do anything this time. All you have to do is sit here and let the scene… _happen_ to you.

Ugh, fine, not strictly true. You’ve got one thing that is definitely absolutely _your job_. You get to sit on your berth and kick your heels until Megatron decides he’s ready to make his dramatic entrance. So you wait. Like you’ve been waiting. Okay, really this hasn’t actually been _that_ long, but. _Come on_. All you have to do is pretend like you don’t know each other. Just a quick, meaningless frag, he’s in, he’s out, easy as anything. What, is he getting into character or something? Because seriously, you were expecting him to leave for like a minute, tops, and now you’ve been waiting here for _three whole minutes_.

Still, even though you’re impatient for it to _happen already_ , when you hear the muffled beeps coming from outside your door, it takes an embarrassing few seconds for you to understand what’s happening. By the time your brain catches up, Megatron’s already entered the access override code, and the door slides open, and you’re standing there awkward and halfway up to your feet.

But you recover like a pro! You slide back onto your berth and strike a seductive pose, like it was what you meant to do this whole time. Which it definitely was. And okay, not to be vain, but you are _pretty good_ at seductive poses. And-- Megatron doesn’t act like he even notices.

You have about half a second to feel just. You know. A little hurt. But then Megatron closes the distance between the door and your berth, and you don’t even think the door has had time to slide shut before his hands are on your waist and he’s turning you over to lie face down, and yeah, okay, you are _definitely_ on board with this development.

He doesn’t waste any time either. As soon as he’s up on the berth, he just gets a hand right on your interface array, rubbing all hard and insistent. It’s not like it _ever_ takes long for you to get spun up, and you already spent half the evening thinking about getting Megatron into the berth, so. Long story short, you haven’t even managed to struggle up to your hands and knees by the time Megatron gets your panel open.

You hear the noise when he opens his own panel, and you don’t even get a moment to brace yourself before you feel him pressing forward, no preparation, no warning, nothing, just his spike stretching your valve out wide. Not that you’re complaining! It’s better than anything, just as good as it always is, the feeling of him filling you to your absolute limit.

And he doesn’t give you much of a chance to adjust either. He pauses just long enough to get a good grip on your hips, pulls back, and _rams_ into you. Your arms buckle, and you end up with your face pressed against the berth, trying to push yourself back upright, but you can’t brace yourself while he’s moving against you like this, can’t talk, can’t even _think_.

You’re making all kinds of stupid little noises, because come on, how are you supposed to stay _quiet_ at a time like this. But Megatron is totally silent, and it’s-- weird. Silent isn’t quite right. Distant? Maybe? Whatever it is, you don’t think you like it. You shift to reach backward with one hand, blindly groping for his hip, his arm, _something_. You don’t quite manage, because he won’t stop _moving_ , but you think he must have noticed, because he stops moving.

Okay, but then he pulls away from your valve and shifts back off the berth, which. _No_ , that’s not what you wanted. _And_ you can’t reach him at all like this. But it’s fine after all, because he takes you by the waist again, and before you even process what’s happening, he flips you over and puts you on your back, right on the berth.

Yes, this is good. You like this development. You spread your legs for him and reach out as he steps to the edge of the berth, but he ignores your hands, and reaches for your legs instead. You-- guess that’s fine, especially when he moves them to rest on his shoulders. And then he’s inside you again, filling you out and pressing up close against you, which. You. Should be happy with this, right?

Yeah, you’re kind of not. You _should_ be happy. You should be loving the way he’s fragging you so hard and fast that you’re having trouble putting thoughts together. You should be loving the way he’s so _close_ to being too much. But there’s something about the detached way he looks at you, like you’re not even _there--_

You can’t figure out what it is. This is-- normal. It’s _Megatron_. You can’t even count the number of times you’ve begged him to frag your brains out. But this-- You don’t know what it is. You like what he’s doing to you. You love the heat you can feel coming off him and how fast he makes your fans spin and the way your spike is dripping transfluid on your stomach. And he still hasn’t said a word to you. You reach up and do your best to rest your hand on top of his, but it isn’t easy with the way he’s fragging you so hard into your berth.

He keeps up the same pace right up until his overload hits. You can feel it start. You can feel the way he pushes himself even faster, his hands painfully tight on your legs, and you can see his optics flicker offline and hear the way his vocalizer spits static. Finally, he curls forward over you, until your legs ache with the strain of it. You can feel his transfluid flooding your valve, and you can feel the way he shakes as the overload takes him. And there, for a moment, everything feels-- _better_ again.

Until it doesn’t. You’re-- close. You’re definitely close. Your array _hurts_ with how badly you need to overload, but Megatron. He pulls away again, just untangles your legs from his shoulders and steps away, and he isn’t even _looking_ at you and you-- You’re left lying there stupid and frozen for a long moment, because. He’ll be back, right? He isn’t just going to make you finish yourself off?

Yeah, you don’t even get a second glance from him. He stops before he gets tot he door and-- looks at you? No. He looks down at his communicator instead. You roll over, back to your knees, face down on the berth, so you don’t have to see him. It's like you're not even here, but he's _using_ you-- He wants you, but he doesn't _want_ _you_ , and you never wanted to admit it, not like this.

And because you’re pathetic, you’ve still got both your hands between your legs. You don’t even really want to get off, not anymore, but your valve is painfully empty with him gone, and you need to overload so badly you could scream, and like you said. You’re pathetic. It’s not like it takes long, not with how spun up you are. It’s a disappointing overload, just enough to bleed off the charge, and then you’re left where you were, with your face pressed into the berth and Megatron’s transfluid dripping down your legs.

Megatron’s still in the room for some reason. Taking care of whatever urgent business popped up on his communicator, you guess. Or whatever. You just want him to _leave_ already,  he’s obviously done with what he came here to do, and you’d rather be a useless mess _alone_ , thank, you very much. And he is _still_ standing right where he was. He should just _go_.

And then he says, “Rodimus?”

Your-- vocalizer is frozen. It turns out. Which is just fine by you, because you don’t have any idea what you’d say anyways. What does he  _want_ ?

You hear him take two quick steps, and then his hands are on you again, gently easing you upright. You let him sit you on the edge of the berth,  but you don’t know if you want to see his face. So you keep your head down. Just watching his pedes.

That works until he drops to his knee in front of you. One of his hands is on your leg and the other is on your cheek, coaxing you to look up at him. When you finally give in, you don’t know what to think about his expression. He looks into your optics, drops his head for a moment, and then looks back up at you again. His mouth is a thin tight line.

He says, “What can I do?”

“I--” You stammer,”I don’t-- I’m sorry- _-_ ”

He shakes his head. His thumb is brushing over your cheek, and you can’t help yourself, you lean into his hand. 

That lasts for a little while. But then he pulls back, gets to his feet, and steps away. It’s-- almost like he punched you in the face, you’re frozen, you don’t have a clue what to do, or  _say_ \-- And then he’s back, and you feel like an idiot, because he was only grabbing a cloth from your desk. 

You still barely remember how your body works,  but it turns out that isn’t a problem. He collects you up in his arms and sides onto the berth himself, with you still tucked up against his chest. He cleans you off all slow and careful, even gently wiping off the smears of transfluid between your legs. He won’t look you in the face, but his arm is still tight around you. And-- like this, it’s so much harder to believe that he doesn’t care. Unless he doesn’t after all. But he  _does_ , you know he does. It still takes a stupidly long time for you to nerve yourself into reaching up and pulling him down to you for a tentative kiss.

Yeah, i t’s tentative for about half a second, and then his hand is on your cheek again, and he’s tilting your face up to him while he kisses you slow and deep. And you take the opportunity to lock your arms around his neck so he  _can’t_ pull away. So there.

The kiss ends eventually, but he stays right where he is, with his forehead against yours.  After a while, you break the silence. “So I don’t think we need to try that scene again.”

It surprises a single quiet laugh out of him, barely more than a puff of air against your cheek. “No. I don’t think we do.”  His arms are back around you.

“ _But_ . I was thinking—just throwing ideas out there—that maybe, just maybe, this evening would be improved if we.  _You_ know.”

He pulls back far enough to give you a  _look_ , and you can’t help grinning. He says, “Again? Already?”

Pff, it’s all good, if he meant no he’d have  _said_ no. “What, are you saying that you were satisfied with just that? I’m insulted! You have a lapful of  _this_ , and you’re only interested in taking me for a single spin?” You look off to the far corner of the room. “I’m  _hurt_ .”

He pretends to think it over, but you’re smiling, and when you  glance back at him, you can see  _him_ smiling, and this is the old familiar ground you know so well. He sighs and shakes his head, but his hand is already sliding between  your legs and cupping over your array, and you think he’s trying to reply, but he’s more than happy to let you drag him down and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him until he completely forgets whatever it was he was even trying to say.


	44. First Aid/Springer: Teasing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/150016845456/relationship-first-aidspringer-rating-mature)

You think you’re mostly doing a good job of handling this. Keeping your cool. Acting like this is a totally logical next step that you definitely saw coming. With Springer! And you! You and Springer-- but. Yes. Definitely saw it coming. _Definitely._ And if you’re running systems checks every few minutes to double-triple-quadruple check that this isn’t some kind of elaborate hallucination on your part, well. Nobody needs to know about that side of things, do they.

You’re even managing to look kind of competent, you think. Probably. Hopefully? You stopped yourself from saying something stupid about Springer’s shoulders, which is definitely good. You didn’t even say anything stupid about his chest. Or his hips. Or any number of other features that you’re in a _very_ good position to discuss right now. Instead you just get to watch while, while he _licks your vents_ , and run a very embarrassing commentary in your head that will never, _ever_ see the light of day.

At least, that’s how it goes until he looks up from your chest while you’re still watching him, and the two of you lock optics, and-- and that’s _perfectly_ _normal_ , there is nothing unusual about that at all, given this-- given this _everything_. But you can’t, you just _can’t_ , and you bury your face in your hands and twist away as much as you can, and you’re maybe a little bit afraid that you’re going to die from embarrassment-induced overheating.

He says, “Doing okay up there?”

You don’t quite manage to answer, but you sneak a peek down at him through your fingers just in time to see him grin. He shifts, moves up further over you so his chest is just above yours. He dips his head to nibble on your collar faring, and you can’t help jumping. And you definitely can’t look away.

Springer looks down at you, still smiling. “First Aid,” he says, all light and teasing. “First Aid~”

You’ve _almost_ got your vocalizer sorted out enough to answer. So of course that’s the moment he bends his head down again. And starts kissing each of your fingers, one by one. This is it, you are _literally_ going to combust, combined arousal and embarrassment, this is how it ends. And he’s doing it on _purpose_ , that’s the worst part. He can’t stop grinning, and he’s watching you, and you can feel the laughter in his frame where your chests press together.

That’s what breaks the spell in the end, when you can’t help laughing too. You finally manage to take your hands away from your face (after you let Springer finish kissing your hands, _obviously_ ), and put them to better use. You’ve been admiring his shoulders for how long? And now you can actually _touch_ them. And the rest of him. _So much_ _of him_. You have a _lot_ of touching to take care of, is what you’re trying to say here.

Springer drops his head down to your neck, and you tilt your head back to give him better access. It means you can’t see what he’s doing anymore, but it’s more than worth it for everything you can _feel_. And like this, every time he shifts, you’re reminded of the way he has you pinned to the berth, the way his chest is pressed against yours, and the way your legs are spread around his hips. When you feel him nibble on an especially sensitive cable, your hips jerk against him, and you can feel his laugh vibrate through your frame again.

He shifts his weight to lean on one elbow, and you can’t see what he’s _\--_ _oh_. Because you can definitely _feel_ it when his hand slides down between your legs. It’s almost embarrassing that it takes only a single touch for your panel to slide open, but you can’t even bring yourself to care about that when you want _so badly_ for him to touch you.

And he does touch you. Just a single finger, pressing against your node, sliding between the lips of your valve. Never _in_ you, no matter how you try to work your hips down against him, no matter how you beg him. You can _feel_ his smile now, with his lips pressed against your faceplate, except when he pulls away to whisper little teasing things about how seem a little spun up, is anything the matter?

You clutch at his shoulders, but you can’t shift him, not even an inch. All you can do there is lie there and hold on as tightly as you can while he builds you up further and further, until finally, _finally_ , all the tension spills over, and you call out, “ _Springer_ \--” as you overload.

Once you’re done shaking, he takes his hand away from your valve and settles back over you. When your optics come back online, he’s still smiling. He says, “My name sounds awful nice when you say it like that.”

He’s still there between your legs. You don’t know if his panel is open, but you can definitely feel the heat pouring off his frame. _You_ did that. You steel your nerves and move your hands down his chest and settle them on his waist. And you tell him, “If you liked it the first time, I’d be more than happy to do it again.”


	45. Megatron/Terminus: Medical

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/150150620996/relationship-megatronterminus-rating-teen)

On some level, you’re aware that you’re following Terminus around like some lost newspark. Which doesn’t mean you find it in yourself to do anything about it. You’re just… aware. You think most of the others haven’t noticed, although Ratchet is carefully watching you two from the corner of his optics. At least he hasn’t said anything. Terminus hasn’t said anything either, even though you see him giving you some odd looks. Small mercies.

The rescued Cybertronians begin to flag before the rest of you. Several of them are sitting with Brainstorm. He’s trying to examine their frames for any remaining ill effects from the time travel _and_ examine his recovered briefcase _and_ fix his broken hand-- all at once and with only his one remaining hand, of course. Ratchet and Velocity are still busy with the more serious injuries. But the mechs sitting with Brainstorm are beginning to slip into recharge right there in their seats.

When you speak, half the room jumps. You… deserve that. You reset your vocalizer and begin again. Nobody argues with the suggestion that everyone get what rest they can, not even Brainstorm. And you think many of the rescues are grateful that someone raised the topic before they had to. It’s a disorganized exodus. There are plenty of rooms to be had, no matter what their original purpose was. You feel somewhat obliged to be sure everyone makes their own way out-- but after Ratchet finally gets irritated enough to shoo _you_ from the room, you’re surprised and gratified to find Terminus waiting for you.

Without needing to say a word, the two of you head together to a distant corner of the compound. You can’t stop watching him. It’s strange enough seeing him here, _alive--_ but it’s almost stranger seeing him like-- like _this_. Upright. Walking. _Healthy._ And yet, you don’t have the slightest idea of what to say. You can’t even think past the spark-deep exhaustion. And so, you stay silent.

Terminus is silent too, until the two of you slip into an unassuming side room-- bare, but large enough for two mechs your size, and that’s all the two of you need. The moment the door slides shut behind you, he turns to you, opening his arms, and saying, “Megatron?”

You fall into him before you can think better of it. You’re clinging to him too tightly, but his arms come up around you and hold you against him. Your face is buried against his shoulder, and you’re selfishly glad he can’t see your expression right now.

It’s only when his knees start to buckle and he half-stumbles backwards that you realize how hard you’re leaning on him. You jerk back, try to recenter and collect yourself—his _legs_ , he’s been so long without them, you should have been more aware—but he catches your hand before you can go too far. He just shakes his head and steps back, pulling you along with him. “Don’t be like that, “he says, and smiles. “I just need to get off my feet, that’s all.”

When he reaches the wall, he leans back against it and gingerly slides down to the ground. You follow, going to your knees beside him. “ _Terminus,_ ” you manage. Your voice cuts out, but it’s immaterial, because you don’t have the faintest idea of what to say to him.

He watches you for a long, quiet moment. And then he drops your hand to reach up and touch your cheek instead. “Words can wait. Tell me when you can.” He pauses to chuckle. “And I think any of _my_ immediate concerns became rather dated quite some time ago.”

It pulls a smile out of you. You reach up to cover his hand with your own, dim your optics, and just let yourself lean into that touch.

You’re not sure which of you moves first, or whether the two of you move together. But the kiss begins so light and gentle that you could almost believe you’re simply imagining it. It doesn’t stay that way for long. Once you shift towards him, you can’t _stop_ , and you’re crowding forward into his space, pressing yourself closer and closer to him, your hands on his chest, his shoulders, his arms, because you still can’t believe he’s _here_ , he’s alive and _here--_

You can hear the comforting words he murmurs when you break apart, and feel the soothing touch of his hands on you. From anyone else, you would reject it. But here and now-- you allow yourself to be comforted.

When you come to your senses enough to be aware of where you are and what you’re doing, you can’t help but realize that you’re halfway into Terminus’s lap. More than halfway. He feels you freeze, and softly laughs. You can feel his lips move against yours as he says, “As glad as I am to see you, you’ve never been a small mech. It’s been a tiring day. Do you want to lie down?”

You gratefully take the escape. As you ease backwards off his legs, you can’t help looking them over for damage. Nothing, of course. You barely did anything that _could_ have hurt him. But as you lie down and he follows, you can’t help but notice-- his _legs_ are fine. New, finely made, moving smoothly. But the rest of him-- He’s been polished up, certainly. But like this, it’s obvious that it was just a simple patch and paint job. From here, you can see the way half his plates are just barely misaligned, and you can feel the cheap material of his plating. It’s-- how it always was. It’s how it was for _all_ of you in the mines. But you never thought it would be this jarring in this day and age.

When he lies down beside you, you can hear the ugly grinding of metal on metal in his shoulder, and can’t help wincing. “In the morning,” you say. “We’ll take you to a doctor in the morning.”

He shakes his head. “You know I can’t afford that. And I’m not letting you put yourself into debt over me either, so don’t bother asking.” His fingers lace with yours, and he gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’m old, Megatron. It’s just what happens. Don’t worry, I’ll get by.

Old. It takes too long for the realization to creep up on you-- because Terminus has always been old, hasn’t he. It’s just a fact of your life. But _no._ No he _isn’t_. You... don’t want to look up the dates. You already know, but you don’t want to _know_. But Terminus was barely a thousand years old when he disappeared. He’s nearly the youngest mech on this planet, and you can feel the ways his joints creak when he moves and you can see the way his shoulders aren’t quite aligned, and he thinks he’s too old to bother seeing a doctor.

You-- don’t argue now. You don’t want that to be what tonight is about. You don’t tell him that it shouldn’t be difficult to find a medic, Autobot or Decepticon, willing to treat a patient for free. If it’s war that changed that-- that is one thing you can’t bring yourself to feel guilt for. You hold yourself back from even trying to make him understand what sort of people Ratchet and Velocity are. Tomorrow. You’ll tell him-- tell him _everything_ tomorrow. For now you hold his hand a little tighter, dim your optics, and listen to his fans wheeze as you try to remember how to recharge.


	46. First Aid/Springer: Facesitting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/151967218286/relationship-first-aidspringer-rating-mature)

When Springer looks up from where he’s kneeling in front of you, and says, “I’m yours to command,” your spark does a shivery little flutter in your chest.

You only hold his optics for a moment before you have to look away. Your plating is burning, but you wouldn’t give this up for the _world_. And besides. Even if you can’t quite find your words yet, your _hands_ can do plenty of talking for you.

So you take a moment to pull yourself together, letting your fingers trail out across Springer’s shoulders and down over his chest—so basically you buy yourself  _lots_ of time, because that’s plenty of surface area to cover. And from the corner of your  eye, you can see him grin as he looks down to watch your hands, so. You don’t bother to hurry yourself at all.

And—you take one slow vent cycle to steady yourself, but before you think better of it, as your hand comes up his chest and over his neck, you tuck a finger under his chin and tilt his head back so he’s looking up at you again.  He’s smiling even wider now, and one short,  _happy_ laugh bursts out of you before you get yourself back under control.

Right, yours to command. You’re proud of how steady your voice is when you say, “Touch yourself for me.” You even manage not to say it like a question.

There isn’t even a moment of hesitation before his hands go between his legs. You can hear it as his panel opens, and—you want to look, you want to  _see_ , but you keep your optics locked on his and watch his face instead. 

He doesn’t look away either. You can see every little change in expression, the way the light in his optics flickers and the way he just barely bites his lip. Somehow, your hands are cupping his cheeks as the two of you watch each other, and you can’t remember putting them there. You—can’t say you have a  _plan_ exactly, but you had meant to draw this out longer, but your interface array makes a decision on its own, and your panel springs open without any input from you.

Springer’s optics flick down, for just a nanoklik, but an embarrassing noise still slips out of you, and you decide self-control and waiting are for other mechs. You say, “Your mouth—?”

His mouth quirks up at the corners. “You don’t sound too sure,” he says.

And that gets another laugh out of you. You’re not doing very well at keeping a straight face, but you can’t really bring yourself to care. “Your mouth, my array,” you tell him. “Right now.”

He’s still smiling as he bends forward, right up until you lose sight of his face. And then—you’re a  _little_ distracted. You brace yourself on his shoulders  as he takes your spike into his mouth, and even then, it’s all you can do to keep your balance. Like this, you can feel every little movement he makes, the way his plating shifts under your hands, all the carefully-controlled  _power_ in his frame— Even worse (better?), like this, above the noise of his fans, you can just barely hear the soft, quiet noises of him touching himself. You can’t see, and all you can do is  _imagine_ and clutch at his shoulders  and try not to overload too quickly.

Springer pulls back a little, only just far enough that his lips still move against your spike when he says, “May I—?”

Your processor has barely caught up enough to realize he’s asked a question, never even mind _what_ he asked, when you’re already saying, _“Yes—_ ”

So you aren’t really expecting him to take you by the waist and lift you right off the ground. You maybe make a noise that some people would call a shriek. You  _may_ even do something that would be best described as _thrashing_. But Springer has you, his hands wrap almost all the way around your waist, and he holds you steady as he rolls onto his back, carrying you with him, and— _oh_ . And settles you down right over his face.

“Yes,  _please—_ ” is all you manage before his mouth is on your valve and your vocal processor glitches out. He takes your weight easily, and once you’re settled, he reaches around you and—you can’t turn far enough to  _see_ , but you can rest your hands on his arms and feel the flex and movement of his  frame as he touches himself.

Like that, how are you supposed to last long? You manage about a klik, holding off overload as hard as you can, because you don’t want this to  _end_ . But there’s no stopping it, and eventually your self-control gives out, and you can feel Springer laughing against your plating, his glossa on your node, as you shake through the hardest overload of your life.

It takes you a little time to get your body back under control. Your arms are still shaky, but you do eventually manage to brace yourself against Springer’s arms enough to shift back off his face. And once you can see him—His optics are offline, you can feel him moving under you as he touches his own array, and you can feel him venting hard against your legs. 

You lean over him, just watching for a moment. But then you put a hand on his cheek and say, “Springer.” No response. So more sharply, you say,  _“Springer.”_ His optics flicker online, and he grins up at you again. But you don’t think you’re imagining that this smile is shakier and more unsteady than the others, and you can feel all the heat pouring off his frame. 

You hold his optics with yours for a long, deliberate moment, and say, “Overload for me.”

He twists under you, almost hard enough to throw you off. His optics go offline again, and he tries to say something, but all that comes out is static. You can  _feel_ the overload when it hits him, all the shivering tension cascading through his whole frame. He throws his head back and you reach out again, both of your hands framing his face, your thumbs stroking over his cheeks as he shakes. 

When he finally brings his optics back online again and looks up at you, the first thing he does is grin again. 

You aren’t sure what to say now, aren’t sure what to  _do_ , but that smile is as infectious as it always is. As dryly as you can manage, you say, “Well done, soldier.” You manage to keep yourself under control for all of a nanoklik, but then Springer bursts into laughter, and you can’t help laughing too. His hands settle around your waist again, and you just sit there, watching him laugh, hearing him laugh, and feeling his laughter echoing up from his frame into yours, and you aren’t at all sure you’ll ever,  _ever_ get enough of this.


	47. Drift/Ratchet: Teasing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/152010267541/relationship-driftratchet-rating-teen-words)

“Ratchet,” you say. No response. He _hears_ you too, you know he does. But he doesn’t look up from his datapad. “Ratchet. Ratchet. Ratchet. Ratchet. Ratchet—”

“ _What_ ,” he finally snaps.

You give him your most charming grin and pause a few nanokliks. Just for effect, of course. Not because you know it will annoy him almost as much as the interruption. Just as it looks like he’s about to say something, you cut in with, “I’m going to swoon into your arms now. You have to catch me.”

“No,” he says, without even a moment of hesitation.

You try to hold back your laughter. “If you don’t catch me, I’m going to fall.”

He turns back to his datapad. “My arms are occupied.”

“Ratchet. _Ratchet_.” He steadfastly ignores you. You drape yourself across his back and lean your head up against his. “Are you saying you care about medical papers more than you care about me?”

“ _Absolutely_.”

He can probably hear the laughter in your voice now, but you can’t even begin to care. “But just think about what could happen if you don’t catch me! Could you stand to live with those consequences?”

He turns his head toward you for barely a nanoklik before going back to his datapad. “If you’re very unlucky, you’ll dent your aft when you fall on the floor. And because _I’ll_ know you deserved it, I won’t patch it. You can have fun explaining the dent to everyone who asks about it.”

You sigh theatrically. “You want me injured. In pain. _Suffering_ in front of the rest of the crew. While you watch with cruel, uncaring optics.”

You can feel the tiniest shiver of a laugh in his frame. “I’m glad you understand,” he says.

“But! Just think. Is that really the worst that could happen? You let more of his weight settle on his shoulders. “So you aren’t going to catch me. You’re going to reject my gesture of trust and affection. As we’ve established. But you think I’ll just fall onto the floor? With this desk here? I think I’ll run into the corner of the desk, it’ll knock my plating loose. I’ll damage my chestplate, leaving my internals exposed. And when I finally, finally collapse to the floor, a stray scalpel could impale my spark.”

“Drift _,_ ” Ratchet says.

You push off his shoulders, backing away, throwing an arm over your face for dramatic effect—and conveniently hiding the smile that you couldn’t hold back if you tried. “Think of the regrets you’ll feel! The apologies you try to make as my spark dies away. You’ll hold me in your arms _then—_ Just think of how different things might have been if you’d only held me a klik earlier.”

“ _Drift_ ,” Ratchet repeats. And victory is yours, as he puts the datapad down on his desk and turns towards you.

You only _just_ manage to keep your face solemn.

And then after a long silence (you spend it trying not to laugh), Ratchet says, “I’m sure that if you ask Cyclonus nicely, he’ll let you swoon into his arms instead.”

“You think so?” You let yourself grin as you walk towards him. “So you’ve discovered my secret passion I’ve harbored for so long? It’s true, you know, I was just settling for the _second-_ most bad-tempered mech on the ship, because I figured the true object of my affection was out of my grasp.” And just as you get within arm’s reach and Ratchet stretches out a hand to you, you turn on your heel and head briskly for the door. “I suppose I’ll be on my way, I wouldn’t want to waste any more of your time.”

“Stop that. I don’t know how far you plan to take the joke, but I’m not going to chase you down the hall. You’ve successfully disrupted my work, so you’d better take advantage of that before I go back to doing productive things again.”

You still take your time walking back to him. You can’t ever get enough of watching Ratchet watch you. You know objectively that you’ve got a pretty frame, but the way he watches you makes you _believe_ it. And this time when he reaches out to you, you pivot dramatically and let yourself fall right across his lap.

But then you hear a quiet grunt that sounds like _pain_ , and you look sharply up at Ratchet’s face and see his optics offline and his mouth in a thin, flat line. You try to scramble upright, get your weight off him, _something_ \--

And then his optics come back online, he smiles in a way that’s entirely too smug, and says, “…is what it would sound like if you threw yourself on me and knocked my spinal strut out of alignment.” Your mouth is still hanging open, and you’re frozen, but his arms are still secure around you. He adds, “The _actual_ worst-case scenario, I think you’ll agree.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, and laugh and _laugh_. “You’re right,” you manage. “I forgot how old and _fragile_ you are—”

“You’ve got a few centuries on me, and we both know it.”

You lean your head up against his chest. “Shh, shh, don’t worry. Some mechs are just built to last. I’m here to take care of you in your old age.”

“Maybe you could try letting me accomplish something useful in those very few years I apparently have left.”

“Are you saying there’s something more useful than holding _me?_ Don’t answer that question.” You still have your arms around his neck and his arms are still around you, and you don’t have any reason to want to move. “Besides, you just gave me a scare. Probably because you like seeing me suffer.”

“Probably,” he agrees.

“Which _means_ , I’ll need to swoon here for a while longer. That’s how it goes, I don’t make the rules.”

“Well as long as you’re here, why don’t we read a nice romantic medical paper together—” He takes one arm from around your waist to reach for the datapad, which means _you_ need to untangle an arm fast so you can grab him, and all things told, you’re lucky you don’t _actually_ tip yourself onto the floor.

By the time you find your balance again, you’re laughing so hard you can barely make your vocalizer work. “ _Compromise_ ,” you gasp. “A compromise—”

“I’m listening.” Ratchet has the best little crooked half-smile on his face, and all you want is to make him keep smiling that way.

You pull his head down to yours, until your lips brush against his when you speak. “If you can concentrate on a paper through what I’m about to do to you, you can read me as many boring medical papers as you want.”

Ratchet closes the last little distance, kissing you slow and deep, until your cooling fans click on and your arms lock around his neck again, holding him against you. When he pulls back far enough to speak, he’s smiling again. “Why, Drift. That sounds like a challenge. And before you ask—” He gives you one quick, teasing kiss. “— I accept.”


	48. Brainstorm/Nautica: Humiliation (Situational)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/152877340736/relationship-brainstormnautica-rating-mature)

Awright, a quick theory you’d like to propose: you’re the worst.

No, really! Because see, just look at this. Somebody’s been hitting on you. Somebody’s been sticking around with you even after you were awful enough that you kind of deserve to have no friends ever again. Maybe a slight exaggeration, but _still_. And _somebody_ finally realized that you aren’t a mech who really processes _hints_ and finally asked you point-blank whether you want to join her in the berth.

Wow. You mean, um. _Yes_ , obviously yes. You just didn’t see that coming. There’s only so many times you can shoot yourself in the foot and still expect to have a chance with anyone, and you kinda thought you’d crossed that line a while ago. You were off in don’t-let-yourself-think-about-the-thing-you’ll-never-have land. Though, to be fair, you have never, _ever_ been good at staying away from there. Your home away from home.

And hey, for something you never let yourself even consider, this is working out surprisingly well, right? Nautica’s a mech who knows what she wants, you’re a mech with the loosest possible grasp on what he actually wants, and she’s more than willing to step up and give this whole adventure some direction. And you’re totally on the same wavelength. She suggested bondage even before _you_ could. Then when you decided what the heck, what’s the worst that could happen, and showed her your toy collection—well. You’ve never seen her so happy. You thought your spark might actually melt out of your chest. She picked out some of your _favorite_ cuffs—favorite in, uh, theory, you mean—a nice little remote controlled vibrator, and the cutest little crop you’ve ever spent money on.

So everything is perfect, right? She gets your hands cuffed behind your back. She goes for your ankles, hesitates—and goes back to the toybox for a spreader bar instead. _Primus_ is she perfect. Wait, you just used that adjective. But that’s not your fault, you’re out of ways to say she’s more flawless (ha! synonyms!) than you’d ever thought possible. Once she’s got you settled on your berth, she opens your panel and takes a moment to just _look_ —you feel so exposed and it’s better than you could have imagined—and she slides the vibrator into you.

Nautica starts the toy off on a nice slow cycle. You know all the settings that went into that thing, but it’s… _different_ when someone else is controlling it. She isn’t doing much with the crop, just tracing around your valve, over your node, trailing it up your spike. That’s probably for the best. It was so tiny and adorable that you just _had_ to have it, but you’re not actually sure how you feel about using a crop in a crop-like way around anatomy that sensitive, y’know?

And all you have to do is lie back and _feel_. Which is where it all goes wrong, obviously. You and Nautica have been making friendly conversation, just like two normal mechs who are totally into each other. But even with the vibrator going gentle, this is still—a lot. It’s a _lot_ a lot. You’re glad she’s into the toys as much as you are, because if this was just plain interfacing, you’d have even more ways to be you and screw it up. Turns out that’s not an issue! You manage to screw it up just fine _anyways_.

The problem is while you’re losing yourself in the vibration, the crop moving against you, the feeling of her free hand on your frame—you dim your optics. You just focus on the sensation. And when the crop brushes across your node, what bursts out of your mouth is, “ _Perceptor—”_

Nautica freezes. You freeze. Oh Primus. _Oh Primus_. You’ve never been this mortified in your life. _Never_. And to be clear here, you have _pretty extensive experience_ with public humiliation. Wow. _Wow_. That went from zero to catastrophic failure in how many seconds? You’ve probably just set an intergalactic record.

You dimly become aware that Nautica is talking. “—Brainstorm? You in there? Can you hear me? Is something wrong?”

You can’t cover your face, not like this, but you at least try to kind-of-sort-of turn away. She’s turned off the vibrator, which is good, or else your brain would be getting some _really mixed signals_. Maybe if you’re lucky, she’ll be forgiving enough to untie you before she ditches you forever. “…I am so, _so_ sorry.”

But Nautica catches your face in her hand and turns you back towards her. When you can finally bring yourself to focus your optics on her face, you’re hit all over again with how undeserving and how fragging _lucky_ you really are, because she doesn’t even look angry, just worried. And once she gets a look at your face, she _smiles_.

She kisses you light and quick, too fast for you to even react, then again, slower and deeper. When she pulls back, you’re trying to get your processor in order enough to manage an excuse, or at least an _apology_ , but before you can say a word she gets both her hands on your face and smushes your cheeks together.

“You’re fine,” is what she says. You can’t manage much in the way of facial expressions like this, but you do your best to convey one hundred percent pure unadulterated skepticism. You must get something of it across, because she laughs and repeats, “You’re _fine_.”

She drops your face, but turns out that’s only so she can lie down across your chest, her elbows on either side of your head, her chin propped up on her hands. It would have been nicer if she’d kept your face all smushed up, because _then_ you wouldn’t have had to try to think about what you’re supposed to say next.

You’re double undeserving, you guess, because Nautica puts a finger across your mouth the moment you open it. Not gonna lie, that’s _probably for the best_.

She says, “If you want to stop, we can stop—”

You don’t talk around her finger, nope, following the rules. But you do shake your head. Because— if there’s any way she’ll still have you, you _really_ don’t want this to be over.

“But if you’re thinking you need to make me feel better—”

And… you can’t stop yourself from nodding a little there, because you _do_ need to, you really do.

She just smiles down at you. “Then you can start by telling me all the best ways to make this the most intense night of your life.”

A laugh bursts out of you before you can help it. Relief, you guess— At least from you, but Nautica’s laughing too as she bends down to kiss you, and neither of you can hold it together for long enough to get a proper kiss in before you start laughing again. You’d _kind of_ like your arms free so you could hold her the way you want to right now. But hey! On the other hand, you’d take being tied up like this for cycles and _cycles_ if it means getting to spend time with her like this.

Finally she pulls back and props her chin back on her hands, smiling in a way that makes you shiver out to the tips of your wings. “Time to start spilling your secrets, buster,” she says. “I think you and I are going to be here for a _while_.”


	49. Firestar/Nautica: Ritual

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/152884005981/relationship-firestarnautica-rating-general)

When Firestar tells— _asks_ you  to come with her, you don’t think much of it.  It’s the way she’s always been. You aren’t busy with anything else, and it doesn’t take anything away from  _you_ to make her happy, so why not go along with it? When she starts leading you off into one of the old, empty corners of the academy, that is a little strange. And when she grabs your hand to pull you along behind her, you’re a little alarmed, and very,  _very_ confused.

You don’t know what she’s looking for, and you aren’t even sure  _she_ knows what she’s looking for, but she eventually tugs you into a dusty, deserted lecture hall. She hesitates for a moment, barely enough to notice, but more than you almost ever see out of her. She turns to face you,  and smiles. She  takes your free hand, so both your hands are held in hers, and steps backwards, leading you  forward to stand in the center of the floor.

The logical part of your processor is starting to put the pieces together, but the rest of you can’t (won’t?) believe this is  _actually_ happening.  She doesn’t  drop your hands, but she—she honestly goes down on one knee, and as her chest opens you can’t look away from the blinding light of her spark.

Distantly, you hear her begin, “I bid you stand in the glow of my spark—”

You can barely even process the words, but you don’t exactly need to do that to know what she’s saying. You barely manage to drag your optics from her chest to her face, but even watching her lips move and _hearing_ the words, you still can’t _understand_ them, this is all, all too much—

But even then, you realize how quiet she is, compared to normal. This doesn’t  _sound_ like her. Her optics are fixed on you and her smile is fading, but you can’t read the new expression on her face, and when your optics meet hers, she looks down, and her hands grip yours a little tighter.

Her voice is quiet as she finishes. “—become my amica endura, from now until forever.” 

You haven’t said anything yet, you  _shouldn’t_ say anything yet, not by the strict form of the ritual. Still, you can’t shake the feeling that she’s looking for, for  _something_ from you, and you don’t know what she wants, but you don’t think you’ve given it to her.

When she looks back up at you, she tries to smile again, but even you can tell how false it rings. She barely speaks louder than a whisper. “Nautica, for your kindness.”

By all rights, the next line after that should be hers too. You’re waiting for her to say it, whatever— whatever follows next, that line is _supposed_ to be hers. But she’s kneeling and silent, just watching you hopelessly, and it’s barely a moment before you give in and take pity on her.

“As you are to me, may I be to you,” you say, “Today, tomorrow, and always.”

You tug her upwards, and she stumbles to her feet. A broad, genuine smile spreads across her face as she repeats, “Today, tomorrow, and always. Oh,  _Nautica—_ “

You don’t even know if she noticed that the script was reversed there, but she’s pulling you to her in a close embrace, her arms tight around you, and you let your hands come up and hold her against you in return. You still feel dazed and unreal, and barely believe this just  _happened_ .

And Firestar is still talking, all her usual enthusiasm and energy, enough to make you doubt that you even saw her so quiet and downcast just—just before. Just now. Amica endurae, you realize. You have an amica. You  _are_ an amica. With  _Firestar_ . You smile and nod mechanically as she talks, making the responses she expects. 

While she speaks, you’re searching her face for, for  _something_ . Does she love you? If she does, you never had a clue. But  _does_ she? And yet—here the two of you are. And you… don’t love her. You certainly don’t dislike her, but you’ve never  _loved_ her. But how were you supposed to say no with her kneeling in front of you, looking so desperate and hopeless? For your kindness, she said. How were you supposed to say no? 

She takes one of your hands in hers as the two of you leave the room and begin the walk back to the student housing.  You let your fingers curl around her hand, and feel her grip tighten on your hand in return. You don’t love her. It would be easier if you did, but— you don’t. You lean into her side as you walk, dim your optics and try to imagine the familiarity of old love, comfort and ease, the sensation of being effortlessly and perfectly in sync with each other. You don’t love her, but you let your fingers tangle with hers and imagine that maybe, in time, you  _could_ .


	50. Cyclonus/Swerve/Tailgate: Emotion Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/156880207881/relationship-cyclonusswervetailgate-rating-m)

When Tailgate comes back to your quarters with Swerve in tow, it isn’t a surprise. He’s been keeping you up to date on every new development all day. In more detail than you ever asked for or wanted. You’ve gotten at least one message every klik, usually more, ever since he went out to invite Swerve to come back to join you. You could have probably pinpointed his return to the nanoklik based on on those messages alone.

Still, as Tailgate walks in through the door, with Swerve trailing behind him— Tailgate seems perfectly at ease. But when you look at Swerve, you can see the tension and nerves written all over his frame. You aren’t sure if Tailgate has realized. In some ways, he’s perceptive. But none of his messages give a hint of this, and when you look at him happily chattering away, you think he must not be aware.

The conversation doesn’t end. Eventually, you interrupt with, “Tailgate.”

He turns to you with a laugh. He takes Swerve’s hand to lead him forward, and you don’t miss the way Swerve jumps and stares at their joined hands. Tailgate takes a few steps towards you and reaches out to place his free hand in yours. He says hello and you welcome him home, but at the same time—

TG: is something wrong??  
CY: He isn’t at ease.  
TG: so i guess i should do something about that  
TG: maybe youre being too stern and intimidating :P  
CY: Possibly.  
CY: But no more comms past him.  
CY: It would be unkind.

The exchange flies by with barely a pause in the conversation. And Tailgate drops your hand to turn fully to Swerve and catch up his free hand. “But I forgot! Is there anything I can get you? Energon cube? Coolant?”

Swerve shoots you a quick glance, and you make a point of smiling down at him. It never stops feeling strange to perform emotion this way, but at a time like this, it’s the polite and kind thing to do.

He stumbles as he replies, “No, I, I’m good, I’m fine. Can I get you anything? Not that— I know where anything is in your quarters, _ha—_ ”

You suppose that someday you’ll stop being surprised when Tailgate is so forthright. But for the moment, you’re still somewhat taken aback when he says, “You can give me a kiss!”

You and Swerve share a quick glance, shocked on his part, amused on yours. You give him another smile, but you also say, “ _Tailgate._ ”

“What?”

Swerve says, “No, no— Kisses, I’m fine with kisses, longtime fan, never met a kiss I didn’t like—” And he bends forward, a little jerkily, and presses his lips to Tailgate’s faceplate.

Tailgate doesn’t ask you for a kiss, and you don’t offer one. There will be more than enough opportunities for that later, and this isn’t the time to push your way between them and make Swerve feel excluded. But Tailgate gives you a look that’s as good as the gesture itself.

And of course, after that, Tailgate doesn’t waste any time in dragging the two of you to the berth. You may affectionately call him shameless, but it is also an entirely accurate descriptor.

With someone else, you might push for a slower pace, for more time to _court_ the mech in question _._ But in this case, you don’t think further delays will do much for Swerve’s peace of mind. He has a grin that only occasionally wobbles, even when he shoots you a quick, helpless look behind Tailgate’s head. You reach past Tailgate to rest a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

Still, once you reach the berth, you give him his space. He and Tailgate settle on Tailgate’s berth together, and you sit on your own, across from them. Swerve is fidgeting nervously, but he responds readily enough when Tailgate reaches up to turn his face to him for another kiss, then another, then more. You give one gentle warning touch to Tailgate’s knee, and he doesn’t acknowledge it directly, but you see his pace slow.

And you are in a good position to see Swerve’s body language relax into something less uncomfortably tense. Tailgate’s hand drifts down from his cheek over his neck cables. Swerve turns further into him and his hand reaches across Tailgate, hesitating only for a moment before he settles it on Tailgate’s waist.

You hear Tailgate laugh, and you see him guide Swerve’s head down to his neck cables. As soon as Swerve is situated to his satisfaction, he gets busy working his hands into the gaps in Swerve’s plating, pressing his fingers up under Swerve’s chestplate and into his shoulders, playing with his sensor wires. You’d warn Tailgate again to slow down, except you can just barely see Swerve’s face past his shoulders, and he’s grinning even wider than before.

They do eventually reach the limits of what they can manage sitting side by side, and try to both climb onto the berth together, without taking their hands off each other. Tailgate’s enthusiasm never ceases to charm you, but it’s one thing to experience it yourself, and another thing altogether to watch it from the outside. After a klik, they get themselves settled with Swerve’s back against the wall, and Tailgate climbing into his lap. Swerve still hasn’t stopped smiling, and Tailgate’s laughter is infectious.

Swerve’s smile does shake when Tailgate reaches down between them and puts his hand on Swerve’s array panel. You’re worried for half a nanoklik, wondering if you need to step in, until his hands settle hesitantly against Tailgate’s back. When Tailgate rubs his panel, you can hear Swerve’s fans spin up and see his smile wobble further and further, and for a moment he buries his face in Tailgate’s neck, but his arms are still around Tailgate, holding him against him.

They press even closer together, and you lose your view of what Tailgate’s hand is doing. But the moment when Swerve’s panel opens is unmistakeable. His mouth falls open and you can see his optics flicker and reset. Tailgate is already up on his knees, his panel open, moving to resettle himself over Swerve’s spike, but you reach out and softly touch his hip.

He glances at you, guiltily, then turns back to Swerve. He says, “This okay? Can I—?”

It takes Swerve a moment or two to understand. But then he replies. “ _Oh—_ Yes definitely, that is definitely a thing I am fine with. I am on board with this plan. It’s a good plan, has real potential—”

The words only choke off when Tailgate parts his valve with two fingers and sinks onto Swerve’s spike.

For a few nanokliks, there’s only the sound of their fans. Swerve’s head is tipped back, his optics offline, his hands tight on Tailgate’s waist. Tailgate waits for him, staying where he is, braced against Swerve’s shoulders.

When Swerve’s optics come back online, there’s barely a moment’s delay before he opens his mouth. “So this is definitely not the way I’d been expecting my day to end. I mean, if you’d asked me this morning, this would have been the most unlikely scenario. Maybe not the _most_ unlikely, maybe the most unlikely would be, I don’t know, Whirl reveals that _he_ was a knight of Cybertron all along and…” His voice trails off as he looks down between him and Tailgate.

You can see Tailgate shift his weight and begin to move, and you hear Swerve’s fans stutter. Swerve bursts out with, “So is this a usual night for you? Standard issue? The new normal?”

Tailgate glances over at you, and you nod. He says, “Chromedome and Rewind gave us the idea! They invited us over a little while ago, and we had fun. So why not try the same thing ourselves?”

“Huh,” he says. His eyes are still on Tailgate, where he’s moving against Swerve’s spike. “Been doing this a while? How many bots have you hit up? You don’t have to answer that. Unless you want to. I never met a piece of gossip I said no to. But you don’t have to. Please cut me off, I am literally incapable of stopping myself—”

“You’re our first!” Tailgate says cheerfully.

You don’t think Swerve quite knows what to do with that information. At first, all you get from him is, “Oh.” He still hasn’t looked away from Tailgate’s valve, but his optics don’t quite look focused anymore. There’s no noise except fans for a few nanokliks, and then he blurts, “ _Me?_ ”

You shift, wondering if you need to step in. But Tailgate leans forward against Swerve, so their helmets bump up against each other. Swerve jumps and looks up at his face, and Tailgate says, “Cyclonus thought you’d enjoy it.”

You don’t miss the shocked sideways look Swerve gives you. But you’re more concerned with his nerves, and all the tension you can see creeping back into his frame. You reach out, making sure he can see the gesture, and rest one hand on his wheel.

Tailgate turns to look at you, and you do move forward, shift off your berth to stand besides his, and bend to press one kiss to his faceplate. Both of you turn your heads back to Swerve. You’d say he looks even more lost than he did at first. He doesn’t seem like he even knows what to say, which is not a situation, you can say you’ve seen him in before.

Tailgate breaks the spell, asking, “Faster?”

Swerve manages to nod, and that’s all Tailgate needs. He resettles himself on Swerve’s spike—you don’t miss the way Swerve gasps and his hands clench on Tailgate’s waist—and begins to move.

And since you’re here, and involved, you see no reason not to stay involved. You have your one hand already on Swerve’s shoulder. You let it drift down his arm and take his hand from Tailgate’s waist, lifting it out of the way so you can step in even closer. You don’t drop his hand, and you feel his fingers curl around yours.

Then, where he can see it, you set your other hand on his waist. You move it from there down his plating, over his hips, and down between his legs, below where Tailgate is moving against him. You pause for a moment before you touch his array, and carefully cup your hand over his valve.

The noise he makes is extremely gratifying, and the way his hand tightens around yours is even more so. Tailgate shoots you an affectionate sideways look, and you let yourself smile down at both of them.

It isn’t long from there to the end. Tailgate rides Swerve’s spike, and you rock the palm of your hand against his valve. Swerve is talking— or at the very least, he’s _trying_ to talk, but the closer you bring him to the edge, the less his words resolve into coherent sentences. By the time you and Tailgate manage to bring him to overload, he isn’t even quite managing words at all.

When he comes out of the overload, the first thing he does is try to apologize. You’re at a loss, you admit, but Tailgate reassures him that it’s fine, nothing is wrong, and this just means he has a good excuse to make Cyclonus unwind—

And that’s all the warning you get before Tailgate goes for you. You’re glad he’s amused that you’re so much larger than he is, but it does mean he hurls himself at you rather more often than you hurl yourself at him. But you aren’t going to tell him to stop when it makes him happy, and you’re especially not going to deny him when you and he want the same things from each other.

You sit back on the edge of your berth, Tailgate straddling your thighs. Your panel is still closed, but when he laughingly demands you open it, you give him what he wants. Your spike pressurizes right into his valve. You reach between the two of you and get your hand on his spike, and the way the two of you move together is so comfortable and familiar now that you barely have to think, you can just _experience._

But you don’t miss the way that Swerve is watching you. Watching Tailgate, especially. Good— That’s good. You hadn’t scripted for a scenario where the third was uninvolved, but you wouldn’t him to feel that he doesn’t have a place here. So it’s perhaps also less good that you see him edging slowly down the berth, towards the door. He stops when you catch his eye. And he still has trouble looking away from Tailgate. That will have to do until you and Tailgate are finished, which won’t take long—

As familiar as this may be, Tailgate never fails to affect you. And you always do your best by him. After you hit your overload and manage to tip Tailgate into his, it’s only a nanoklik or two before you can nudge him back towards Swerve.

Tailgate takes your meaning, and is back over on his own berth in a moment and shoulder to shoulder with Swerve. Swerve doesn’t make a move to leave, but he’s watching Tailgate with a strange expression you can’t quite read.

Finally, he bursts out with, “How did you—? That was—?”

You don’t follow until he makes a descriptive—if exaggerated—rude gesture and looks meaningfully down at your array. _Ah._

You’re spared having to respond by Tailgate who laughs and says, “It’s not that hard! It took a little while, but anyone can do it, promise.”

“ _Really,_ ” says Swerve, but he’s starting to smile again. “You’re sure you didn’t get your frame surgically modified or anything?”

“Oh, no,” Tailgate tells him. “Anyone can manage! Really! Don’t worry, next time I’ll show you how to get started.”

Swerve is leaning into Tailgate’s shoulder and grinning as wide as you’ve ever seen when he says, “Next time?”

Tailgate leans back into him and laughs. “Next time!”


	51. Cyclonus/Galvatron: Humiliation (Public)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for material riding that line between dubcon and noncon that I love so much, also warning for the robot version of body shaming.
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/157264073251/relationship-cyclonusgalvatron-rating-hard-t)

Galvatron blindfolds you before he invites any of his guests in.

That’s only what you’ve come to expect. He desires control; you are more than familiar with that part of him by now. But as concerned as he may be with control, he is equally concerned with taking control from _you_ in the process of seizing it for himself.

At one point, this would have unsettled you. By now, you're used to it. You listen to the footsteps as Galvatron escorts his guests into the room, but you can’t recognize any of them. This is a new ship, a new crew. You expect you’ll learn to tell them apart soon enough.

“See? Just like I told you.” Galvatron grabs your chin and tilts your face up, moving it back and forth, showing you off. “Just look at that face of his. It’s like he was _forged_ for this.”

There’s a quiet, interested murmur from the mechs around you. You decide not to bother trying to decipher who is who. There will be time for that later.

Galvatron drops your chin, and without any preamble, jams two fingers between your dentae, forcing your mouth open. “Think there’s anything that could be done with a mouth like that?”

You hear the murmurs grow louder. One mech laughs once, quick and muffled.

“That’s right,” Galvatron says. He leaves his fingers hooked in your jaw, dragging your mouth even further open. His other hand traces the inside edge of your cheeks. “That is _exactly_ right.”

Someone asks, “Can he take two mechs at once?”

“Two?” Galvatron laughs “ _Easily._ You’re setting your sights low, just _look_ at him.”

Someone else adds, “Especially if they weren't large mechs—”

“What if we brought in the menial workers?”

“They tend to run small. See how many he could handle at once—”

“But once you get more than a few, they won’t have room to move.”

There’s silence for a moment. You remain still, Galvatron’s fingers still holding your mouth open.

“Toys,” somebody says. “See how many toys he can take at once.”

Galvatron laughs, long and loud. “I like the way you think.” His fingers drag at your jaw. “Stuff him as full as we can, then see how long he lasts before losing any of them. Punish him for each toy he drops.”

He takes his fingers out of your mouth, but only so he can take your chin and tilt your head upwards to face him. You can feel him bend down towards you. You don’t react. The silence is uncomfortable, but you wait for him to break it.

“And what do _you_ say?” he asks. “You going to pretend like you aren’t interested? Or are you going to just give in and admit that there isn’t anything you want more? Are you going to kneel there and beg me for permission to let them use your mouth like this?”

You don’t react.

And Galvatron doesn’t wait for an answer. He drops your jaw, turning away, back to the assembled mechs. Casually, he says, “He wouldn’t do anything but suck spike all day if I didn’t give him orders.”

There are a few more laughs this time.

“Right,” says Galvatron. His fingers hook into your cheek, forcing your mouth open again. “Who’s first? Don’t be shy, there’s room for everyone, and the night doesn’t end until you say it’s over. Come on, just _look_ at him.”

You hear a mech step up to you, with another one close behind him. They hesitate, talking quietly to each other above your head, but they’re still crowding in closer by little half-steps, and you can hear other mechs moving in to stand behind them. Galvatron takes his hands from you, but you leave your mouth open, the way he left it. You sit back on your heels, still your spark, and wait.


	52. Cyclonus/Tailgate/Whirl: Body Alteration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For context, Rotorstorm. Also [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6630151) if you want to know approximately the take on the backstory I'm using for this fic, but mind the warnings on that story.
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/157680244501/relationship-cyclonustailgatewhirl-rating-m)

Things are going well. It’s a new and unexpected development! You still don’t know exactly how to feel about it. All you’d been trying to do was set up two mechs who weren’t going to work things out on their own, at least not before the heat death of the universe. You were being a helper! A helpful helper! _Friend_ is a... weird word. It’s an awkward word. But you were trying to help.

But then, just when you think they’ve _finally_ worked it out, they both start looking at _you_ with those bedroom optics. And. What?

It’s been a little while, but that pretty much still describes how you feel about things. You mean, obviously you like Cyclonus and Tailgate, or you wouldn’t have tried to help them in the first place. _Duh._ But they also seem to like _you,_ and that’s… ??????

You’re dealing! Is the important thing. Maybe you respect them a _little_ less for having such poor judgment. But you’re dealing. Sure, every few days you convince yourself that you’ve been misunderstanding the whole thing and you need to back off, like, _yesterday,_ but who doesn’t feel like that? Besides, it’s hard to even temporarily believe that, given how they keep. You know. Finding you? Spending time with you? _Weird._

And hey, double extra weird, they even want to take you to the berth. Apparently. And, you mean, you’re on board. Even if you’re privately judging them _hard_ for their taste, you’re not going to say no, especially not when they’re asking you to say yes.

See though, the problem is that you are starting out already so very out of your depth, and Cyclonus and Tailgate keep making even _more_ decisions that throw you for a loop (wanting to spend time with you? haha, what?), so… You never really get the chance to _think this through._

The net result is that you’re kneeling on the berth with Tailgate in your lap, and Cyclonus against your back, and you open your interface panel— And oh. Would you just look at all those custom mods. Oh. _Right._

Tailgate perks right up and asks, “What are those?”

_Hghh._ With how enthusiastic he gets, you forget he’s so inexperienced he actually is. You are not teaching him about the mechabirds and technobees, especially not right now. See, just look at that weak excuse for a joke? You are _not_ going into this right now, thanks.

But Cyclonus leans over your shoulder and cuts in before you have to say a word. He says, “Custom array modifications. Biolights, implants, enhancements.”

“Ooh,” Tailgate says. He scoots closer and reaches out for your spike. Cyclonus shoots you a sideways glance—you don’t know what he’s looking for, or what he _sees_ —and intercepts Tailgate’s hands with his own. Tailgate doesn’t seem to mind. “What for? Can I get some too?”

At least Cyclonus is answering these questions so you don’t have to. “Aesthetics. Sensation. For yourself or tailored to a partner’s array.”

“What about these ones?” Tailgate looks up at you. _Frag,_ you’re being too quiet, he’s going to be able to tell— “Whirl?”

“Partner,” you manage. No, wait, _frag everything,_ aesthetics would have been the perfect useless answer how are you so incredibly off-balance right now?

And yeah, Tailgate totally lights up. He exclaims, “Partner! Who? Can I meet him? What happened—”

That’s dangerous enough territory these days that even Tailgate realizes it. He cuts himself off, and starts to shrink back, and aww, no, that’s not what you were trying to do. So you shrug, casually, and say, “Dead.”

“Sorry,” Tailgate says, and he reaches up one hand to cup the side of your neck. Now that is just _too_ cute, how does he manage it?

So you bend down to gently headbutt him, which his practically as good as a kiss when you’re both a little lacking in the mouth department. He laughs and leans into it. You can feel Cyclonus’s hands move from Tailgate’s, back to rest on your hips, and he shifts and resettles against your back. So! Back to normal! Everything can proceed as planned.

No, because the moment when you’re feeling complacent and like you might have your footing again, that’s when Tailgate looks down at your array and innocently asks, “What should I do? What will feel best for you?”

It surprises an, “ _I_ wouldn’t know,” out of you before your processor can even catch up to the simple words you’re saying.

Ha. Hahaha _hahahaha, frag,_ this is no good, no good at all, you would like to bail out of this conversation _two kliks ago,_ but no, you can already see Tailgate moving into the next question.

“Why don’t you—”

“ _Tailgate.”_

Ha, thank Primus for Cyclonus. Who would have thought that a mech so good at staying closed off and unemotional would have a knack for helping people stay closed off and unemotional? _Crazy._

Tailgate doesn’t want to let this drop, you can see it all over him. He’s curious? He wants to ask questions? About a thing that you said and he doesn’t understand? _For shame,_ where’s his sense of propriety? You feel Cyclonus just barely move, and you’re not sure what that was, a disapproving head shake, maybe he mimed _stop, abort,_ or hey. Maybe he just went ahead and mouthed ‘for the love of Primus, please don’t ask him why he has array mods tailored to a single person but no idea how those mods actually feel in practice.’

Tailgate takes a moment to catch on. You can tell when he realizes, because you can see him droop, but he doesn’t push it. And maybe he _is_ really starting to get to know you, because he doesn’t linger on apologies or anything useless like that, he just lets things… move on.

Instead, Tailgate just says, “Tell me if something doesn’t feel good?”

Yeah, that’s probably something that you can manage. And you don’t even get a chance to start thinking about how you _could_ screw it up before he just goes for the gold and gets both his hands on your spike.

That—feels nice. That feels _very nice._ And it’s even better seeing him watching you so earnestly while he touches you. He’s nervous, you think. But he’s got your spike in his hands, and it’s hard to screw that up. He might not know what he’s doing, but what he’s doing feels just _fine._

Before you can figure out how to communicate that without using those literal words, because ha, _no,_ you’re startled out of your train of thought when Cyclonus moves against you. His hands slide off your hips, down over your pelvic plating, around Tailgate’s hands, until his fingers are resting lightly against your valve. He shifts against your back, presses in closer, leaning forward enough to look down past your shoulder.

You’re still not sure exactly how to react, but that’s becoming less and less important. You can’t really remember what changes even got made when you had your array reconfigured, but whatever Tailgate is doing feels fantastic, and what Cyclonus is doing feels just as good. Cyclonus starts off light and slow, and Tailgate definitely isn’t taking his time. It’s an interesting contrast, both of Tailgate’s hands stroking your spike, while Cyclonus has one finger only just resting against your node and one finger sliding gently between your valve lips.

He takes it slow enough that you get impatient and start trying to work yourself down against his hands, and hey, turns out you do kind of remember how this goes after all. Tailgate laughs at the way you jerk when Cyclonus finally slips a finger inside you. You can feel your fans running hot and the air blasting from Cyclonus’s and Tailgate’s vents. You see Tailgate’s panel open and his spike pressurize, and you can _feel_ an occasional suspicious nudge against your back that you’d bet anything is Cyclonus’s spike.

So. It really doesn’t take long at all for them to finish you off. You’re outnumbered! Outmaneuvered! And honestly, you also really, _really_ want an overload by this point. It’s a long one, they don’t let up on you even after the overload hits, there are still four hands all over your array, Tailgate watching you, Cyclonus pressed against your back. Maybe a _little_ overwhelming, but also, that one overload barely takes the edge off the charge.

Fortunately, Tailgate. You’ve barely even got your vocalizer back online before he’s already wistfully looking down at your array. He asks, “Can I—?”

Well, you’re lost. You glance sideways at Cyclonus, but you can feel him just barely shrug. You turn back to Tailgate. “Can you what?”

He’s still looking at your spike, and all the ridiculous modifications. “Can I everything?” He starts to reach out towards you and hesitates. “I’d _like_ to everything.”

You look helplessly at Cyclonus again. At least he looks about as lost as you. The two of you exchange a commiserating look.

After a moment, Cyclonus ventures, “‘Everything’ covers a great deal of territory.”

“What’s a good place to start? I don’t need to be anywhere else for a while.” He looks up. “Unless you don’t want to?”

You’re trying not to laugh. “I’ve got free time. So hey, why not. We can go ahead and spend the day trying some ‘everything.’”


	53. Tarn + DJD: Roleplay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6320311/chapters/22244750)

When you tell your team that your next mission will be to track down the Decepticons behind the roleplaying blogs pill0wprincessmegatr0n and pillowprinc3ssm3gatron, they don’t take it as seriously as you might have hoped.

Helex stares at you blankly for a moment, then rolls over to look at Kaon. “I thought we did that already?”

Kaon shakes his head. “We found pillowprincessmegatron. But that was a few centuries back.”

Yes, and the site admins _still_ refuse to release the usernames of wartime casualties, even if you can _personally prove_ the bot in question is dead— An issue for another time.

And your team is still looking rather unenthusiastic.

Helex says, “Does it... matter that much?”

Kaon adds, “I have a list of mechs who gave information to Autobot intelligence in exchange for clemency. I don’t have an exact fix on them yet, but I can narrow some of them down to a star system, if not a planet—”

You draw yourself up. “These blogs are a _direct affront_ to the dignity and authority of our commander and leader, and any true Decepticon should know that insulting him in this way is as good as an act of treason.”

Blank looks. Eventually, Tesarus asks, “Do we have to listen to you give this one a speech about how Megatron would be a stern but attentive lover?”

“ _No.”_ Maybe. “The point. The point is. Characterizing Lord Megatron in this way is a blatant act of disrespect and disloyalty. And furthermore, beyond that, emphasizing this aspect of his proposed sexuality fetishizes and trivializes the very real struggles so many Decepticons have experienced in our history, where government and society denied working class mechs their agency—”

“We know,” Helex interjects. He glances over at the others. “We read the essay you posted about it. We all follow your shipping discourse blog.”

Tesarus mutters, “You wouldn’t stop bringing it up until we agreed to follow you.”

You graciously pretend you didn’t hear that. “Then you understand why this is so important.”

“Well—” Kaon hesitates. “We might not be able to find them very easily. They’ve made it very difficult to connect their personal information to their online account.”

“Especially after what happened to pillowprincessmegatron,” Helex adds.

Kaon nods. “And I’m going back through their online history now. It looks like they’ve both gotten a lot of anonymous harassment and threats over the last couple centuries. They might have been less cautious before that, but I’m having trouble finding any personal information now.”

A… misjudgment on your part. Perhaps. But it’s best not to focus on the mistakes of the past, it’s better to look to the future. “I’m sure we can work out something,” you say. “Those two bloggers don’t like each other, that’s— that’s what I’ve heard. Surely we can reach out to each of them for information about the other.”

Helex lets his head fall back. You choose to believe that’s a sign he’s focusing his energy on how to solve this problem. He says, “Or they’ll both just get suspicious. And even more careful.”

There’s silence for a moment. Then Tesarus says. “...p1llowpr1ncessmegatron.”

Kaon perks up. “Taking him out instead? That could work. He’s not nearly as high-profile as the other two, but a quick search is showing that he’s torqued off a lot of other mechs in the roleplaying community. I’m sure we could find someone willing to sell him out—”

Stiffly, you cut in, “ _Actually._ I’ve always found that p1llowpr1ncessmegatron treats the subject very thoughtfully, with a great deal of nuance and respect.” A pause. “I’d even recommend his blog if you’re interested in seeing how this can be explored in a less harmful, problematic way.”

Your team just looks at each other for a few nanokliks. You stay right where you are. After a moment, you cross your arms across your chest.

Eventually, Kaon says, “So… maybe we can keep working on the rest of the List? At least while I try to figure out who’s behind those blogs.”

You nod with as much dignity as you can. “But of course. We wouldn’t want to fall behind on the rest of our work. We’ll continue to move down the List while you work on unmasking those _two_ roleplayers. I think we can all agree that this is a top priority.”

And on that note, you turn and leave. You check your alerts on your way back to your office, but there’s nothing, on any of your blogs. That’s fine, perfectly fine. You’ve always made a point of valuing _quality_ over _quantity._ And besides. That means that today you don’t have anything to distract you from the important things. Before you focus on anything else, you need to be _absolutely_ positive you’ve removed any hints of personal information from a certain private blog.


	54. Megatron/Terminus: Class Fantasies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/158834296521/relationship-megatronterminus-rating-mature)

The mines are exhausting. No matter how suited your frame is to the work, no matter that you were literally built for the work. They’re exhausting. You go back to your quarters at the end of every day thinking only of your berth. Especially on a day like this, a long shift followed by longer lines, waiting for your rations. You know that you didn’t spend nearly as much time in line as you did working. But it feels that way

And still, like every day, when you get to your quarters and see Terminus waiting for you, recharge becomes just that little big less important, and you feel the spark-deep exhaustion start to slip away from you. He greets you with a smile, and you can’t help smiling back. He’s nearly done with his energon, so you drink yours quickly. You don’t want to waste time on unimportant things. And after you finish, you’re free to step to him.

You’re still tired. That never stopped. But this… it’s comfort, it’s familiarity, it’s ease. You don’t need to be poised and alert. This is a space where you can be tired, and a space where you can be content.

Terminus meets you easily. You hardly even have to think about it anymore, you fit together so naturally. His hands on your frame, yours on his, chest to chest. It’s so easy to stand there with him, quiet and still. Even in the mines, it’s something approaching serenity.

Of course, after thinking those thoughts, you’re still the one to break the spell. You lean in for a kiss first. And as you pull back, he follows, kissing you in return. This rhythm is just as familiar and natural, though perhaps less _serene._ Your hands move to his chest, his to your hips. You can feel roughness on his lips. Rust damage. And you suppose you aren’t doing much better. You ought to think how you can save the money for a treatment. Perhaps if you pay for him, then save for yourself— Later. For now, you focus on the way the heat is slowly building. The kisses stay lazy and soft, though it takes you longer and longer to part. You’re more aware of his touch over the seams in your plating, the way his helm reflects the red of your eyes.

Things hold to that same familiar rhythm until Terminus finally nudges you backward towards your berth. He sits you down on the edge— And then you have to hide a wince at the sound as he goes to his knees.

You’re halfway to your feet, trying to help him up, before he stops you. He chuckles as he presses you gently back down onto the edge of the berth. “I’m already down here,” he says. “Why don’t I make the most of it?”

It still makes you uncomfortable, for reasons you don’t quite want to tell him. You settle on, “I don’t want you to feel obligated.”

Terminus smiles fondly. “I’d hope that by now you’d be willing to admit that I may have offered to do this because simply because I _want_ to.”

You… do understand that. You really do. And it doesn’t change that you’re sitting up here, perfectly at ease, nothing to do but wait for his attentions. And he’s down on the ground, with failing knees, waiting to… service you.

And you are absolutely not going to say a word of that out loud. He knows you too well, though. He reads it right off your face, because he leans in, laughing, and nudges your legs apart.

He says, “Aren’t you taking a terribly simplistic view of power dynamics? If I was you, I wouldn’t wager on who’s going to have the control here in a few nanokliks.”

Which isn’t the point, the point is that— You’re not rising to his bait.

Terminus is still smiling up at you. “And if I was up there and you were down here?”

Then he’d be comfortable and you’d be fine. You tell him, “That’s different.” Because it _is_.

So there, you’ve as good as admitted you’re holding an indefensible position. But he’s still not done with you. “Do tell me if there’s anything I can do to set you at ease,” he teases. “But then I’ll be making even more special accommodations for you. How does that alter things?”

“You’re trying to provoke me,” you sigh, reaching out a hand to cup the side of his head.

He laughs. “Why would you say that? I’m only doing my best to leave no question as to how very important you are.” His hands are on your thighs, gently keeping them spread, his fingertips resting against the edge of your leg plating. He bends forward to press a kiss to your panel. Then another. His fingers drift inward, closer and closer to your array. Your attention is entirely on those little points of contact against your plates.

Then Terminus pulls back just far enough to smile up at you again. “I know how I can make it clear.” Oh no. He leans in to kiss your panel again, taking his time. Holding you in suspense. And then with his lips still resting against you, he murmurs, “My Prime.”

Your plating flares hot from head to pede. You can’t— You just— You give up and bury your face in your hands so you don’t have to _look_ at anything. “ _Terminus.”_

“My Prime?”

It derails the train of thought you’d nearly managed to pull together. His hands move to your hips, and his fingers slip just barely inside the joints, brushing against your wiring. His mouth is still against your panel. You still can’t pull your face out of your hands.

No, you’d been— You were going to say something. You nearly had it before he did… did _this._ He’s distracting you on purpose, you just need to focus. You manage, “Don’t—”

“Don’t? Don’t what?” Terminus asks. He waits oh so innocently for an answer, but you don’t need to look at him to know you’re still being teased. And you still can’t quite arrange your thoughts well enough to articulate them.

He moves one hand to your panel and says, “I’m only here to serve, my Prime.”

And despite yourself, your panel springs open. Terminus takes your spike in hand easily as it pressurizes. His other hand slides from your hip down to rest over your valve, his fingertips just barely brushing against your node. You’re already close, _embarrassingly_ close, he’s hardly even started— and then you feel his mouth against your spike.

You barely manage to hold onto the last shreds of your self-control. You can feel his lips against you as he takes your spike into his mouth. It’s all you can do not to hit overload in just those first few moments.

Terminus pulls away, and you think at first that he’s taking mercy on you. But then he reaches up to take one of your hands and guide it to his helm. You lock optics with him, and he smiles. He says, “Tell me how to please you, my Prime.”

You only just manage not to overload to those words alone, and the moment his mouth wraps around your spike again, you’re lost. Your hand on his helm is no guide for him, if anything, it’s an anchor for you as the overload takes you. One of his hands rests lightly over your valve, and his other hand moves to your waist, anchoring you further as you shake.

Even once the overload passes, for a few moments, all you can do is sit there, stunned, your fans still racing as you look down at Terminus. He sits back on his heels, laughing softly. When he smiles up at you, you can’t help smiling back.

And the nanoklik he moves to stand, you’re there, taking his hand, helping him to his feet. It gives you a chance to collect yourself.

You try not to sound too indignant when you say, “That was _cheating.”_

He’s on his feet, but he doesn’t drop your hand. “You’re free to try the same, of course.”

“It won’t work on you,” you sigh.

He smiles over at you. “I suppose you’ll just have to find your own ways to get creative.”

You manage to nudge him over towards the berth and get him seated without argument. But when you start to go to your knees, he takes your hand and pulls you onto the berth with him instead. You’d wanted to do more for him, you really had, but you follow his lead willingly enough— until he says, “I could _never_ ask that of my Prime.”

“ _Stop,”_ you beg. You can’t hold back the laughter anymore. Terminus is chuckling too, but he stills before you do, smiling fondly at you for a long moment before he reaches over to touch the side of your helm, guiding you to him for a long, slow kiss.

When you part, he doesn’t even have to say anything at all, he just gives you an arch look and that’s enough to set you laughing again. You lean in to kiss him again, and that single kiss isn’t nearly enough, so you press in even closer, kissing him longer and deeper. It’s easy to let the kliks drift past like that, but eventually Terminus shifts to lie down, and you move to follow, bracing yourself over him. He’s still smiling at you, and you can tell from the look in his optics he’s still on the edge of laughter. But that’s no better than you. There’s no shortage of things you want to tell him, but instead of fighting to set it to words, you just bend down to kiss him again and again and again.


	55. Arcee/Whirl: Guns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for guns in intimate places. This is an upbeat story, nobody gets hurt, and these two are definitely playing consensual, but neither one of them has the best grasp on 'safe' or 'sane'.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/159709214601/relationship-arceewhirl-rating-explicit-words)

So. Arcee! Not every day you meet someone who’s so much _your_ kind of bot. It’s that moment when you’re arm-wrestling a mech after the entire space-time continuum somehow didn’t implode when you look across your glass of engex and can’t tell if that’s a berth look or a murder look in her optics. Gets you every time.

And! Once your level of subtlety (low) gets calibrated to her level of subtlety (also low), it doesn’t take the two of you long at _all_ to reach an understanding. You head off to her apartment, and you know what, things just keep getting better and better, because you barely have to start getting difficult before she steps up to take charge, just the way you like best.

You don’t put up a real fight, because you _do_ want to get to the good part. But you also aren’t trying to go that easy on her, and she still gets you on the ground in moments. She plants her foot firmly in your stomach, and she might not be laughing the way you are, but you can see her smiling as she reaches down between her legs and opens her panel.

That’s when you’re a little taken aback. Maybe a tiny bit confused. Not upset, _definitely_ not upset, but, “Is that a gun? Or a spike?”

She smiles and says, _"Yes.”_

And oh. O _hhhhhhh,_ oh _yes,_ you have officially picked up the hottest mech on Cybertron, how is this even happening, how are you _this lucky?_

Your panel doesn’t stay closed. Because how could it? Right now your only regret is that the two of you aren’t already fragging. Arcee notices, you can’t look away from her spike, but you can see her looking you up and down.

She takes her time, though, taking her foot off your stomach and stepping down between your legs. She takes her spike in one hand and nudges the tip of one pede against your valve. You can’t help a long, full-body shiver. She says, “I think you see something you like.”

Could be. _Could be._ Because you’re you, your first instinct is to be difficult. But you can’t even manage that right now, you’re too busy having your mind blown by this entire new world of sexy, sexy possibilities. You spread your legs even winder, _hint, hint,_ and say, “I’ve never seen mods like _that_ before. Who did them? Asking for a friend.”

That spike is still winning as the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. But the way she’s smiling as she watches you is still a _strong contender._ How have you never met this mech before? Where has she been for the whole rest of your life?

“Decepticon medic,” she says. “Flatline, or something like that. They’re brand new. I’ve never even gotten to try them out before.”

An embarrassing noise slips out of you. The noise of new developments punching you in the face. New _sexy_ developments. That’s what that noise was. You try to spread your legs even further apart. You aren’t going to beg, but let’s be real, if she doesn’t take mercy and frag you through the floor, you’re totally going to buckle and beg.

But thank Primus, she takes mercy. She goes down to her knees, and on the one hand, it means you can’t see her spike anymore, you can’t stare down the barrel of that gun with her fingers wrapped tight around it and—going to cut hat thought off right there, because you’d at least like to get a _little_ bit of fragging before you work yourself into an overload. And besides, on the other hand, it means she’s lifting up your hips, getting legs up over her shoulders, and you can feel her spike pressing against your valve.

She stays there for a moment, and you’d beg, you really would beg for more, but like this, you can feel the shape of the barrel right against your valve lips, you can feel the heat coming off her frame, your legs are practically shaking just waiting for her to go the rest of the way, and it’s even more intense for the _anticipation_ of it all.

And then Arcee says, “I’m still not sure how to fire this.”

That’s it, not only do you overload, you overload _hard,_ and she’s barely even touched you. Your vision is glitching out, and her hands on your waist holding you steady. Holding you still against her. When your vision steadies out again, you can see spots of transfluid on her chest, but her smile is even wider than before, all sharp edges and satisfaction. As soon as you’ve stopped shaking, she pushes forward into you.

“You like that,” she says.

You manage, “What makes you say that?”

And you’d honestly planned to go on some ridiculous tangent, because you’re why you can’t have nice things. But you’re distracted by the feeling—almost like a spike, which is hot enough. But not _quite_ a spike. You can’t feel the shape of the barrel as clearly when it’s inside you, but you can still make out the bits that say _gun_ more than they say _spike,_ and all you want is more, right this moment, please.

Wait, no, there was a better part. You say, “You don’t know how to fire it?”

She pauses, hesitates for a moment, and shrugs. “In theory. But I’ve never tried it. Why? Is that a problem?”

You do your best to inch down even further towards her. “ _My_ only problem that you haven’t fragged me into stasis yet.”

Arcee laughs once, hoists up your legs, and drives hard into you. And _frag yes,_ it’s perfect, you’re still all oversensitive and tender from your overload, it’s too much in the best way, her weight bearing down on you, pushing you down into the floor as she fills you, and _her spike is a gun._

It takes a few moments to sort out how your voice works, but then you ask, “What if it goes off when you overload?”

And she must be starting to figure you out, because her rhythm doesn’t even stutter. “What about it?”

You wrap your legs around her shoulders as best as you can, pulling her in against, you. “Then I think you need to _try it_ already.”

That gets another single laugh out of her, which is the best, _all_ the best things happen when she laughs like that. You twist your cockpit out of the way as well as you can, but you still don’t have a great view of her fragging you. She does, though, she definitely does. And watching her look down at her spike moving in and out of your valve is almost as hot as watching it yourself would be.

Plus this way, you can feel her arms go tight around your legs, but you also see the way she bites her lip and hear the little noise she makes when she tips over the edge. The gun doesn’t _actually_ fire, but the anticipation has you so spun up, and you’re just _waiting_ for the blast, and even thought it doesn’t happen, it’s enough to send you into a second overload, your head thrown back and your optic offline, your claws scraping uselessly against the floor.

You don’t get to come down off the overload too. Everything is so _much_ that it takes you a moment to figure out what’s even happening. But the sensation doesn’t stop and you’re feeling so many things all at once, you don’t even realize her hand is on your spike until you reboot your optic and look down between you. She’s staring you down, still that same kind of intensity that makes you wonder if you’re about to be murdered, still that sane smile. But her hand is on your spike, you can feel her touching your node with the other hand, and her spike is still buried deep inside you—It’s too much in that way that’s almost too perfect and nearly hurts, but she doesn’t let up until she sends you into a third overload, long and shivery, your legs just shaking where they’re wrapped around her and vocalizer locked up so tight you can’t even make a sound.

Once you’re done, Arcee sits back on her heels, still smiling and lets your legs slide off her shoulders. Her spike slips out of you, but you still can’t sort out your words quite well enough to argue about that. She says, “That was a nice show.” And then she nudges your cockpit. “Less of a good show for you, though. Want me to fix that?”

You might not be able to talk yet, but you can nod _very enthusiastically._

And you don’t even have to move. She stands up and plants one foot right in your stomach, just like before. She watches you, but you can’t quite manage to look anywhere except her spike. She takes her time, one hand on her spike, the other between her legs, two fingers up her valve. Even going nice and slow, it doesn’t take her long to finish. Watching her overload— It’s too bad you’re already so worn out, or you’d definitely be ready to go again. You end up with transfluid all over your chest and shoulders, but that’s more than worth it.

Plus once she’s done, she pulls you up to your feet and moves you right along to the washracks. This is the deluxe treatment! You’re not just heading out to wander off back to the Lost Light, and you’re _also_ not both just passing out in a messy, sticky pile in the middle of the floor. It’s not all touchy and sappy in the washracks or anything, not so much with the flirting or casual conversation. But hey, even once you’re both out and dried off, she leads you right along into her berth chamber. The berth chamber you never even made it to in the first place, haha, _whoops._

Arcee stops and stares at you expectantly. You’re honestly a little lost, and wondering if mmmaybe you were reading this wrong and you’re supposed to be going back to your place after all? But then she says, “It’s a standard berth. You’re going to have to lay down first.”

Ha, _wings,_ right. And! Once you’ve gotten settled on your back, she slides right on up into the space at your side. You’re not sure if you’d really call this cuddling, but it’s a shared berth and contact, and she seems perfectly happy to have you stay at her place, so hey! Better than you could have ever anticipated.

You usually do a pretty good job on the filling-uncomfortable-silences-with-words front, but she’s actually the first one to speak up here. “If you do want the mods, I can show you the way to bully Flatline into doing them for you.”

Aw, that’s sweet. But you sigh. “I wouldn’t be able to use them _on_ myself, though. I need to find someone to volunteer for it. And then I can bully Flatline into modding _their_ array.”

Arcee snorts. “Yes, because there is nobody currently on this planet with a gun spike who would ever be willing to frag you.”

 _Awww yes,_ implied future hookups, this evening just keeps getting better and better. “But eventually I’ll be heading out on the Lost Light on Quest Quest. Whatever the quest is. And you’ll be…?”

“Not doing that,” she says without hesitation. Aw.

But then after a moment she shifts and turns to look up at you. “Get your medic to learn how to do the mods. That way you can get it taken care of even if you don’t find your volunteer before leaving the planet.”

You tap your claws thoughtfully. “Ratchet’s probably a no. First Aid— I’d probably have to go through Ratchet right now anyways, and I bet that would be worse than Ratchet on his own. _Oh—“_

 

WH: brainstorm!!  
WH: i bet you anything you cant figure out how to combine a spike and a gun together  
WH: somebody did the thing once  
WH: but BETTER  
WH: spikegun  
WH: gunspike  
WH: i dont come up with the names  
WH: thats your job  
WH: but i bet anything you dont know how to do it  
BS: I know bait when I see it  
BS: But  
BS: I can also see how to do it  
BS: This is your fault for making me think about this  
BS: Why would you do that  
AR: Physical ammunition or energy weapons only?  
BS: No no why are  
BS: This isn’t fair  
BS: I can see all these solutions and they’re in my head now  
BS: Because of you two  
BS: With physical ammunition you’d have to have a way to load more ordnance  
BS: Oh  
BS: Don’t say it  
AR: Valve.  
WH: valve  
BS: ……of course  
AR: What kind of fire rate could you get?  
WH: can you one thats BOTH kinds of guns?  
AR: Actually, what kind of gauge could you work into a gun with physical ammunition?  
AR: Given my frame.  
AR: I’ll send you my dimensions.  
AR: I want to weigh my options.  
BS: You are two cruel mechs  
BS: I want you to know that  
WH: its too interesting  
WH: you know you cant resist  
WH: you know you want to solve the problem  
WH: braaaaaaainstorm  
BS: I’m thinking about automatic fire and ammunition feed rates and ammunition feed LOCATIONS and its all your fault  
AR: If you’re coming up with designs anyways, you might as well share them.  
WH: its so new  
WH: so revolutionary  
WH: new weapons to invent  
BS: I had been doing useful work  
BS: Before I got these messages, I had been having a very productive night  
WH: dont worry ill just ask wheeljack  
WH: im sure hell be able to figure it out faster

Annnnd you have officially been blocked. You’re laughing and you can’t stop. But it’s fine, because you can feel the laughter in Arcee’s frame too. You say, “He’ll have plans by the morning. So many plans. I bet he’ll even have some prototypes.”

Arcee looks up at you. “Prototypes? If he has prototypes, then they’ll need to be _tested,_ won’t they.”

 _That_ sure gets your attention. “Testing? I like testing. I deserve to be an honorary scientist with all the testing I like to do.”

Arcee isn’t laughing anymore, but you can still see her smiling. And she’s still lying right up against your side. Not acting like she’s planning on moving. With your arm kind of basically sort of around her. _And_ she has a spike that’s also a gun. You’re still not quite sure how your evening got from drinking and arm-wrestling to _this,_ but the more things progress, the more you’re absolutely willing to roll with whatever _this_ is as long as it’s an option. You settle down for the night and let yourself slip off into recharge.


	56. Megatron/Rodimus: Sex Toys (Non-Penetrating)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/160900006686/relationship-megatronrodimus-rating-mature)

You are becoming intimately familiar with the way Rodimus carries himself when he has a new toy he wants to bring to your attention. It’s unspeakably charming. You can’t resist the urge to pretend complete absorption in the datapad you’re reading, while Rodimus does a poor job of pretending to read his own datapad, sitting next to you, fidgeting and stealing sideways looks at you, and edging hopefully closer and closer every time he thinks you aren’t paying attention.

Eventually, without looking up, you slip an arm around his waist, pulling him across that last little distance, up against your side. You set the datapad aside, turn to smile down at him, and say, “Yes?”

Instead of an answer, first he wraps his arms around your neck, pulling you down for a kiss. You give way willingly, letting him guide you, reaching up with your free hand to cup his cheek.

It takes him some time to pull away, but when he does eventually break the kiss and lean back into your arm, he holds up his prize, presenting it to you with a flourish. “Check _this_ out.”

You—don’t recognize it at first glance. It’s small and unfamiliar. You take it carefully from him to examine. Rodimus is grinning so widely you can’t help smiling in return. It only takes you a moment to find a control dial, and the toy begins to vibrate. You aren’t very surprised at all, given Rodimus. But there must be something more to it. This doesn’t have the power of his other toys, and it’s so small that it will be hard to maneuver.

But Rodimus is too excited to wait for you to examine it more thoroughly. He plucks it out of your hand. “Look—” He presses on an unremarkable protrusion, and a tiny clamp flexes open.

It still seems too small to be usable, and you tell him as much.

He’s practically wriggling with excitement. “Think— It depends on where you’re planning to _use_ it doesn’t it? Think about it, think where that should go.”

Knowing Rodimus, you can guess what he means. You take the toy back and test it yourself, feeling the strength in the clamp. You give him a meaningful look. “That seems like it would be rather painful for your node.”

He bursts out laughing. “No, no! I mean yes. A little. But in the good way, I promise. And this isn’t even the version where you can add weights onto the end, but I—”

“You bought that one too.” It isn’t really a question, and he doesn’t bother to respond. His grin is answer enough, and you can’t stop smiling fondly down at him.

“But you should try it,” he says. “Is the point. That you should definitely try it.” A pause. “On _me,_ ” he adds. Just to be _sure_ you understand.

You bend to kiss him again, and then turn your attention to the toy. You flex the clamp again, considering it. And from the corner of your optic, you see Rodimus’s panel open and his spike pressurize. He rests his fingers lightly against his valve, and when you look up at his face, you can see his optics on the toy in your hand.

You say, “I’m not sure what you want from me. You haven’t been very clear.”

He doesn’t dignify that with an answer, just makes a face at you and turns to swing his legs across your lap. You kiss him once more, and then take the toy, nudging his legs apart and bringing it towards his valve. Even before you’ve touched him, you can feel him shiver in anticipation. You set your free hand just over his array, holding him steady, and place the toy over his node, slowly, _slowly_ letting the clamp ease shut.

You watch him carefully. You don’t want to hurt him. His hand is tight around your back and you can feel a sharp intake of ventilation from him. But his optics are locked on your hand between his legs, and he’s still grinning as wide as before. When you finally let the clamp close fully, he makes a soft little noise.

But then you’ve barely even released the toy before he’s demanding, “Turn it on, it vibrates, turn it on—”

You take your time, although now, it’s simply for the sake of watching how impatiently he fidgets and tries to shift himself even further into your hands.

Still, that’s nothing compared to how he looks when you actually turn the toy on. You turn it to the lowest setting, and he still jolts so hard he nearly falls from your lap. His hand clutches at your shoulder, but his grip is unsteady, and you move your free hand to his back, supporting him and holding him against you. He leans into that touch, his optics flickering.

You let your other hand rest softly against his valve, feeling the faint echoes of vibration through his plating. And you watch him, watch his reactions, watch the way he moves and the expressions he makes as he tries to get himself back under control.

After a few moments, he manages, “More?”

You oblige him. You don’t make use of the toy’s full strength—based on Rodimus’s reactions, you won’t need to—but every time Rodimus looks to be finding his control again, you edge the toy stronger.

Rodimus is making all manner of lovely noises, but he hasn’t managed many words. He is trying, though. It isn’t long at all before he forces out, “I’m going to—”

“Wait,” you tell him.

He clutches even harder at your shoulder and turns his face into your arm. Your hand is on his array, but only the lightest contact between you and him. You simply let the toy continue to vibrate.

After only a few silent moments, he says, “I can’t—”

“Wait,” you repeat. “Just a little longer.”

He makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat. You pull him even closer against you, your arm steady against him. He holds his legs apart for you, though you can feel his thighs shaking where they rest against you.

He tries so hard to hold out. He lasts for longer than you expect before he bursts out with, _“Please—”_

“Soon. Not yet.”

“I can’t— Please, I _need—_ ”

“Almost,” you soothe. “Just a little longer."

He sobs, the sound muffled against your arm. The shakes aren’t limited to his legs anymore. You can feel him shivering head to toe, and you can hear the noise of his fans and feel the heat radiating from his vents. All your attention is on him. On the line of his shoulders, his hips, the way he fights to keep his legs spread for you. And when you judge he’s hit the point of no return—

“ _Now,_ Rodimus.”

He overloads beautifully. His whole body locks tense and his legs close around your hand. He turns into you as fully as he can, so he’s practically curled around your chest. His free arm comes up to wrap around your neck and he holds tight to you, his face still buried in your plating. You can’t make out any words in the noises he makes against you, but he certainly manages to communicate a great deal.

You’re still watching him closely, and as soon as you feel the tension begin to ebb from his frame, you turn the toy off, and try to delicately remove it from his node. You’re working blind, with his legs still closed tight around your hand. You remove the clamp as gently as you can, but you still feel him gasp and shudder as it releases from his node.

You set aside the toy and reach down to turn his face up to you, so you can better judge how he’s doing. His optics are still flickering unsteadily, and his smile is shaky but content, and the very first thing he does is reach up to drag you down for yet another kiss. You oblige him in this too, letting him draw it out as long and lazy as he pleases. He’s still smiling against your mouth, and you can feel him trying not to laugh, but it still takes some long moments until he’s satisfied and he releases you.

He smiles up at you, just watching your face, and you continue to smile fondly down at him. You’re not certain you ever stopped. He does move first, but only to stretch—and to resettle himself more firmly in your lap. He makes no move to leave, only reaches over to pick up his discarded datapad. He leans against your chest, making himself at home, as you retrieve your own datapad. The two of you have almost a cycle until you’re needed back on duty, and you believe he’s just as content to spend that time in this way as you are. You put an arm around him as he leans into you, and both of you begin to read.


	57. Drift/Ratchet: Medical

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/161012656321/relationship-driftratchet-rating-mature-words)

You find the… _thing_ by accident. Mostly because you’re being nosy and poking around Ratchet’s office, because he’s busy, but you still want to spend _time_ with him, and meditation isn’t as exciting as he pretends you think it is.

But this is just too funny. You stay sitting where you are in front of the cabinet for a klik, just looking at it. Because this _can’t_ be what it seems like. Right? Or maybe— But _here?_

You turn around and hold the thing up. “Ratchet, why do you have a spreader bar?”

He looks up sharply from his datapad, then sees what you have in your hand, and sighs. “That isn’t a spreader bar. It’s a piece of medical equipment.”

“...because it sure looks like a spreader bar.”

And you officially have his attention, because he gets up from his chair and takes the two steps to where you’re sitting on the floor. “ _Medical equipment._ It’s for immobilizing the legs for certain kinds of hip injuries, where the legs need to be slightly abducted while it’s treated. Sometimes with the joint held in flexion too, depending on what part of the bearing has been damaged.”

“How?”

He takes it from you. “These cuffs here are adjustable, go around ankles or knees, depending. The bar is adjustable, but should accommodate most—”

“—so it’s a spreader bar.” You pluck it out of Ratchet’s hands. You’re trying not to laugh. “Come on, you can’t tell me that _never once_ occurred to you before now. I refuse to believe I’m the first person to notice this.”

“It’s remarkable how much that _isn’t_ on your mind when you’re trying to patch the insides of a complex joint well enough that the bot in question can avoid t-cog damage next time they try to transform.”

But when you steak a glance up at him, he’s leaning against the wall, watching you with a fond half-smile. So you say, “Show me?”

He sighs, because he’s Ratchet. It’s what he does. But he’s still almost-smiling, and he hasn’t said no.

“Come on,” you press. “I’ll even set it up for you. No work for you, none at all, you only have to do medicine on me.”

Ratchet steals the bar back again. You keep grinning hopefully up at him. He gives you an appraising look and clicks the bar a few notches shorter. “Ankles, I think,” he says. “Get on your back.”

You’re lying flat on the floor before he’s even finished saying the words. He goes down on one knee to cuff the bar to your left ankle, then your right. And you’re already all keyed up and _ready_ for him, but he doesn’t touch you past that. He braces against his knee and pushes to his feet with a groan, and then steps across the room, to somewhere outside your field of vision.

“Ratchet?” No answer. You crane your head back as far as you can, but it’s no good. So you try to roll over, just so you can see where he’s gone—but that’s no good either. The bar isn’t that wide, but it’s wide enough that you can’t quite manage to get up onto your side. “ _Ratchet?_ ”

And he’s there, right overhead, looking down at you. “Two nanokliks, Drift. I was gone for _two nanokliks.”_

You smile up at him as he goes to both knees and places a few little… somethings on the floor. “Lies, blatant lies. That was at _least_ five. What are you doing?”

He turns away and begins mounting something you can’t quite see on the wall. “That isn’t a spreader bar, because it’s only one small part of the equipment for the surgery. I’m getting the other pieces you didn’t bother to ask about.”

When he turns back to you, you can see that the thing he’s placed on the wall is a small hook. Your optics go immediately to the bar. What else could it even be? But you’re still not sure what those other things are that Ratchet brought—

“Closer,” he says. “You won’t quite reach from there.”

You have to sit up and lift yourself up on your hands and feet to move. Which doesn’t work so well with the bar between your ankles. Ratchet watches you for a moment (you’re pretty sure he’s trying not to smile), then bends forward to put his arms under you and ease you closer to the wall. Once you’re lying back down, you lift your legs to set the bar into the hook, but Ratchet takes it himself, and you let him guide you into place, your legs held spread and slightly raised. You can feel your plating heating up. Ratchet doesn’t manhandle you often. But it’s times like these that you _wish_ he did.

He holds up the mystery devices and says, “Joint locks.”

You’re—taken a little by surprise. You aren’t opposed, exactly. But, “Why?”

“To keep you _still_ while I carry out this operation we’re not doing. One for each ankle.” He clips those into place, and you shiver at the feeling of his hands underneath your plating. “Plus one for each knee. And if you’d decided to do this little experiment on a berth instead of the floor, we’d have an actual framework for this instead of a hook in the wall.”

You try moving your legs, but your knees and ankles just aren’t bending at all. It doesn’t feel like you’re being restrained, just—just that your legs aren’t responding to you. _Mostly_ your legs aren’t responding to you. “None for my hips?”

“Not if I’m going to get in there and care of the surgery. If you were still being difficult we could bolt you down at the chest or shoulders.”

 _Oh._ That makes you shiver. But before you can even open your mouth to say anything, Ratchet’s there at your side, bending over you. His optics are on your face and his hands are poised over your hips, and you completely lose your train of thought.

He slips his fingers under your plating so easily you barely feel it at first. But you _definitely_ feel it when he runs a finger along one of your sensor wires, and you can’t help jumping.

“Hold still,” he says. “Or we actually _will_ need to do the surgery to fix damage in here.”

You do your best, while he works his fingers deeper into you. You wouldn’t have thought there was that far to go. And there _isn’t,_ he’s just working so, so _slowly._

It means that every time his hand shifts, you feel his plating brushing against your wires, even your energon lines and your internal struts, You can feel it all, and it’s like these few moments are being drawn out for cycles and cycles.

When his fingertips find your hip bearings, a sharp, _“Ahh—”_ slips out of you, and to your complete embarrassment, your panel snaps open.

But Ratchet just gives your array an amused glance. “And that’s why you deactivate sensory feedback when this is a real surgery.”

His hands move in you, just enough to get a single finger under each bearing. The back of each hand is pressing against a bundle of sensory wires, and you do your best not to thrash.

“If this was an actual medical issue, I’d be examining your bearings for damage right now.” His fingers run over the surface of the metal, and you never realized just how _sensitive_ your hips were. Are. Ratchet bends forward to peer down into the joints. “If I had a good guess as to what kind of damage this was, I’d try to feel it out by touch.” He traces a single fingertip over each of your bearings for emphasis. “But if it wasn’t obvious or the damage seemed complex, I’d be getting in there with some kind of imaging device.”

And he is completely ignoring the way your spike is right there, _right_ under him bobbing right in front of his face. And ignoring he way your valve is dripping on his office floor. Even when you deliberately shift in place, just to. You know. Bring attention to certain things. He goes right on ignoring you.

Eventually, he takes a hand from one of your hips to place it on your waist and hold you down. Still without touching your spike. _“Ratchet—”_

“Be patient.” He glances up at you. “Just watch, I’ll wager your array doesn’t need to come into play at all.

He pinches one of the wires in your hip, and you gasp and try to arch up into his touch, but he leans harder into the hand pinning you to the floor. Between that and the way he’s locked up your legs, you can’t get the leverage to move at all.

Ratchet says, “Sensitive, isn’t it? And just based on what I’ve seen so far, I don’t think you even need anything too particular, I think that just the bearings will be enough for you.”

Your processor hasn’t caught up enough to ask what he means before he goes right ahead and _shows_ you. He takes your hip bearing between one finger and thumb, with just enough pressure to be on the edge of pain. He rubs over the surface of the metal, slow but relentless, never giving you a moment to recenter yourself. His knuckles press against a bundle of sensor wires every time he moves, and even just the feeling of his wrist against the edge of your plating is almost too intense to handle.

You weren’t expecting this to feel like so _much._ You try to thrash, and you don’t know whether you’re trying to push away or pull even closer, but his hand has you pinned in place. You can’t twist, you can’t close your legs, you can’t do _anything—_ All you can do is clutch at his arms and struggle to ventilate as he rubs over and over the surface of your bearing.

Even with all that the overload is still a shock when it hits you. One moment, your spike is aching with how badly you want him to touch it—even though you don’t know if you can handle even more _sensation_ right now—But then the overload is already rushing through you. Your optics white out, but you can feel the head of the transfluid as it hits your chest, you can feel your valve clenching around nothing, all while you fight to press harder into Ratchet’s hands.

By the time you’ve come back to yourself, Ratchet has already disengaged the joint locks and set them aside, has unhooked your legs from the wall, and is undoing the last cuff on the spreader bar. As you sit up, he even hands you a cleaning cloth. Which is good, because if anyone is expecting you to be on top of things right now, they’re going to be very disappointed.

Ratchet does let you wrap your arms around his neck and drag him in for a few slow, lazy kisses before he pulls away and stands up. You stay right where you are and just watch him. You’re smiling, and you aren’t sure when you started, but you definitely don’t have any plans to stop.

And you still aren’t quite back on top of things yet, because it takes you a few moments to realize that he’s putting away the toys, and, _“Wait—”_

Ratchet says, “Yes?”

“I wasn’t done with those.”

He turns to give you a long, dry look before he goes back to putting them away. “This is medical equipment.”

It is, you know that. And you don’t have any _real_ excuse. “But—”

He firmly shuts the cabinet door, then comes back over to you. He takes the dirty cloth from your hand and sets it aside to be cleaned later. And he reaches down to take your hand and pull you to your feet. “Before you try to beg medical supplies off me— Drift, one of these days, I promise you’re going to learn to ask if I _already_ _own_ the recreational versions of these toys you like so much.”

You laugh and _laugh,_ all while Ratchet is trying to get back to work, but from the way he’s smiling, you don’t think he minds very much.


	58. Cyclonus/Tailgate: Sensation Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/164085684781/relationship-cyclonustailgate-rating-mature)

The premise of the scene is simple enough. Tailgate has a set of toys he plans to use on you—one each for your spike, node, and valve—and a remote that controls them, which he’ll retain for his own use. He’ll cuff your hands behind your back. And that’s all.

He has some sort of new idea that he wants to try. That much is clear from the way he’s been edging around giving you any further information. And from the way he can’t hide how excited he is and the way he keeps wanting to laugh as he dodges your questions. He insists there are no other restrictions, besides the cuffs. No limitations on what you can do, what you can ask for. You aren’t inclined to push any further and spoil his fun.

Once you’re arranged to his satisfaction, he reaches up to tug insistently on your elbow until you bend far enough for him to bump his faceplate up against your mouth. He’s shown no inclination to get a mouth added to his frame, but he remains persistently taken with the idea of a kiss.

When Tailgate pulls back, he looks down to where he holds the remote, and you feel the toys hum to life against you. They vibrate, but only just. He must have them turned to the lowest possible setting.

He looks up at you. “So, since this looks like it’s going to take a while, I was thinking I was going to go read?”

And before you can properly orient yourself and process his words, he’s already turning and heading out of your berth chamber. You hesitate for a short moment. But you have to assume that you’re meant to follow. The toys are small, with a low enough profile that you can retract your spike and close your panels. You do so, although you can still feel the vibration against your array, and follow Tailgate out of the room.

He’s already made himself comfortable on the couch in your sitting room, holding a datapad. But when he looks up at you, the way he shifts is the same way he moves when he’s doing his best not to laugh. You’re in no rush making your way to him, but you do, arranging yourself beside him, not quite touching, your hands resting comfortably behind your back. You can feel the press of the cushions, even past your panel, and you can certainly feel the way it makes the toys shift against you.

But even then, it’s still only a slight distraction. The toys remain at the same low setting, and you can endure this for a long while before it tests your self-control.

Tailgate is more patient than you gave him credit for. You aren’t quite certain how much of his attention is on the datapad and how much is on you, though to all appearances, he seems fully engrossed in what he’s reading. It’s an interesting enough text, an abbreviated history of the earliest phases of the Autobot-Decepticon war, the period before Cybertron was rendered uninhabitable. For a little while you attempted to read over his shoulder, but the angle made it difficult, and the cuffs and vibrators made it more difficult still.

Additionally, the toys are more distracting than you had initially guessed. In the normal course of events, they would be… insignificant. But now, you have nothing to occupy your mind, nothing to occupy your hands. There’s nothing to pull your mind away from lingering over the sensation of the toys vibrating against you. Even Tailgate is quiet, not speaking to you. When you ask him a few quiet questions, he replies with single words answers, or just makes noises of agreement, never looking up from the datapad or turning towards you.

You still don’t reach your limit quickly. Your internal chronometer steadily marks the kliks passing, as Tailgate reads and you sit, unable to distract yourself from the feeling of the toys in and on you, the remote resting beside Tailgate’s leg, and the way he determinedly pays you no attention. Even with nothing beyond the toys to focus on, Tailgate never turns the toys any higher, and they vibrate at that same agonizingly slow speed.

More than a cycle later, you understand the point of the game, on a much more visceral level. You don’t know precisely what Tailgate intended, but you are painfully aroused, while simultaneously knowing that you won’t be able to climax under the power of _just_ that sensation. Tailgate still hasn’t so much as glanced at you. You can see enough to tell that he’s still reading steadily, though you struggle more and more to make out the words on the page.

Your panel remains closed, more from the knowledge that opening it will do you no good, rather than any lack of need. You catch yourself shifting in place, attempting to rock your panel against the couch, anything for that slightest bit of pressure. You think Tailgate must have noticed something of how you’re affected, though he hasn’t acknowledged it in any way.

Although you never had any intent of overacting your part to bring the game to an early close, after a cycle and a half, you’re nearing the limits of your endurance. It isn’t an act at all when you finally give in and turn towards Tailgate, curling forward over his shoulder in something as close to an embrace as you can manage with your hands bound, and as close to a plea as you can manage without words.

He pretends not to notice for just a moment longer, just enough to send shiver of uncertainty through you that you’re still misjudging the scene. But then he turns and looks up at you, tossing the datapad carelessly aside, and from the corner of your optic you can see him reaching for the remote. Briefly, he lifts a hand to cup the side of your face, and you lean down into him, resting your helm against his. He lingers there for a nanoklik before nudging his faceplate against your mouth again in another kiss.

His hand drifts down over your chest, his fingers light against your plating. He asks, “Open?”

You don’t need to ask what he means. There isn’t even a moment of hesitation before you let your panel slide open. His hand is there even before it’s finished, and you gasp at how sensitive and aching you are as he traces his fingers around the toy clipped to your node and lets them play over your spike as it pressurizes.

The vibration doesn’t increase. It remains maddeningly slow and light, so little that you can’t find a way forward to reach overload, but strong enough that you can’t find relief from the torment. Tailgate has the remote in hand, but still hasn’t done anything with it, not since the start of the game.

There’s only his hand against you, on your spike. You can feel the pressure of his regard as he watches you, and shutter your optics. You’d be tempted to beg for mercy if you could find your words. But the only noise is the roar of your fans. You curl forward over him, until your helm rests against his again. Your hips twitch against his hand, and you’re no closer to finishing than you were before, but you can’t force yourself to move away from that gentle touch to search for something more.

Tailgate’s touches against your spike are maddeningly soft, and almost as much of a torment as the toys are. When he presses a finger to your transfluid channel, sudden firm contact when you’re aching for his touch so badly, it surprises another gasp out of you. The way his hand moves to your node is another shock, and the careful, gentle tug on the toy where it’s clipped to you is yet another.

When his hand moves to the false spike in your valve, he slides his fingers inside you. Not much, not far, just enough for him to reach the toy and nudge it that much deeper into you. You pull helplessly at the cuffs on your wrists before you catch yourself, and force yourself into stillness again. But you can’t stop the movement of your hips. You don’t know how you’re supposed to, when you’re so desperate for his touch. You can’t stop it any more than you can stop your ragged ventilations, or the way you lean into him, pleading without words.

The sudden sharp vibration of the toys is a surprise you weren’t expecting. Your optics boot, but glitch and reset as you try to adjust, process, _understand—_ Tailgate is holding the remote, but now, in the brief moments your optics focus, you can see his thumb on the dial. You shouldn’t need to see that to realize what’s happening, but it’s so difficult to think past the onslaught of pure _sensation_ after so long hopelessly waiting for a real touch.

It’s only moments before you hit overload, your limbs frozen, but your frame shaking. Tailgate’s fingers are inside you still, and he’s laughing happily, whispering encouragements, keeping his helm against yours, never dropping his optics from your face. The overload feels like it lasts forever, drawn out into an impossible eternity where you’re helpless, unable to move or think, nothing that you can do but lean into Tailgate and endure.

As the overload finally ebbs, Tailgate doesn’t turn off the toys. Rather, you can feel the vibration becoming even stronger.

It pulls an involuntary cry from you, an inarticulate noise as you pull away from Tailgate and arch, pulling fruitlessly at the cuffs on your wrists. Your array was oversensitive, even before the overload, and this is very nearly too much to bear. Tailgate’s hand leaves your valve so that he can reach up and cup the side of your face again, guiding you back down to him. You feel his second hand too, on the opposite side of your face, just holding you against him. On one hand, you’re unspeakably grateful. On the other, you nearly sob at the knowledge that he’s set aside the remote, and there’s no relief to be had from the overwhelming amounts of sensation flooding your frame.

The climb to overload is as much pain as it is pleasure. If you could find your words, you might truly be begging Tailgate now. He’s still talking to you, but you can’t draw the connection between sounds and words, and all you can cling to is the feeling of his hands on your face, holding you steady.

It’s so, so long before you manage to overload, but it does come. You shudder from head to pede as it takes you, and you cry out again, involuntary and desperate. Your entire sensory suite whites out for a nanoklik. When your optics reset, your field of vision is almost entirely taken up by the blue of Tailgate’s visor.

You’re struggling to process any sensory input right now, but as you’re still shivering through the aftershocks, you think you can feel the vibration of the toys slow, and stop. Once the last of the overload has swept through you, you’re certain. When you slump forward against Tailgate, you can feel him take a hand from your face and reach to your array, first undoing the toy attached to your spike, unclipping the one attached to your node. And then he carefully reaches into you and slowly, gingerly removes the false spike from your valve.

Once he’s finished, you’re beginning to feel slightly more in control of yourself again. You sit up enough to take your own weight again, though you don’t pull back from him. He’s chattering, a stream of familiar, comfortable words. Admiration, gratitude, excitement, happiness. Nothing that requires a response, so you simply let him talk.

After Tailgate reaches around behind you to uncuff your wrists, you do straighten and stretch for a moment. And then you turn back to him. You’ve hardly said a word since this began. And you don’t particularly know what to say now. But as Tailgate looks up at you, you bend down to him and kiss his faceplate, soft, slow, and lingering.

Your attempt to pull back is somewhat hindered by the way Tailgate laughs with delight and throws his arms around your neck, pulling you back down against him to kiss him again and again and again.


	59. Chela/Metrotitan: In Public

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/165106706526/relationship-chelametrotitan-rating-general)

You see Chela long before you reach him, a shining point of gold against the dull colors of the landscape. As you draw closer, his head rises and he watches you walk. He makes no move to come to you, and doesn’t say a word of greeting. You’re unsurprised. Chela has never cared overmuch for speech, and both of you are content with your silent, measured approach.

You pass some few of your children as you walk towards Chela, some clearly his, some with no obvious affiliation. Some simply watch you as you pass them by, others rush out of your way, although with each slow step, you are careful to place none of them in danger.

Chela is nearly still as you close the last of the distance to him, his optics intent on your face, the only movement a slight shifting and resettling of the plating of his wings.

 **[CHELA]** , you say.

 **[METROTITAN]** , he replies, an unexpected, rare gesture of intimacy.

You reach out to him, letting your fingers rest against the side of his neck, the first moment of contact after so long apart. No other words are necessary. He moves again under your hand, almost imperceptibly, just enough for his plating to shift and settle again. For some time, the two of you simply look at each other.

You are the first to eventually break that contact, and you feel a brief flicker of amusement from Chela at your impatience as you pull away from him and go slowly to one knee, then both. You have to agree, although you remain unrepentant and unconcerned. You have spent long enough without him.

Like this, you and he are of a height. And now, he finally moves. He takes two steps to close the distance between you, and steps up onto your thighs, looking you over, up and down your frame. You’re doing the same to him, noting every little change to his frame, but taking in all the comforting, familiar details that are the same as when you last saw him.

Chela bends toward you, and you hold patiently still as he delicately takes the edge of a piece of plating on your shoulder, and tugs at it until it sits to his satisfaction. You can see no difference, or feel one either, but you are content to let him fuss as much as he wants.

You reach out to him instead, running one hand slowly along the edge of his wing where it sits against his side. You bring your other hand up to cradle the side of his neck again, just below his crest. He is undeterred from his task and continues to examine your frame, but you can feel the shift in his weight as he leans into that touch. You can feel the heat of his plating underneath your fingers. When you imagine the pulse of his spark underneath that plating, you feel your own spark stir in your chest.

From so close, Chela notices that flare of energy, and you can feel his spark responding to yours. He nibbles the edge of your helmet one last time, quick and affectionate, before he pulls back far enough to settle down atop your legs.

You open your space bridge, and feel the answering signal of his space bridge as it comes online and reaches out to you. The connection is as natural as it has ever been, a joining more intimate than any simple touch could be, and you fall into each other with the ease of long practice.

His spark is already burning brighter. You can feel the warm press of it against your plating, but inside of you too, a slow, intense heat radiating out from your space bridge and filling your frame.

Chela feels it too. You don’t only know that from what passes through your link, through your joined bridges. But it’s there written across his face, it’s there in the way he presses closer to your chest, the way he lays his head on your shoulder, leaned against the side of your helmet. He nibbles absently at your plating, though he’s no longer truly seeing what’s in front of him.

Your field of vision is taken up by his crest, and you’re overtaken so much by the sheer _feeling_ of him that you can’t even focus enough to make out his individual plates. All you see is a shimmering, shifting field of gold, your optics overwhelmed and conquered as surely as your spark has been. Blindly, you bring your hands up to hold him to you. As difficult as it is becoming to think past the moment, or to separate your own awareness and desires from his, you are entirely, completely certain that you are not ready for this to end.

Although it can’t last forever, it lasts for a long, long while before you and Chela finally separate, content and sated. Your spark reaches out for his even as you break the link between your bridges, but it is a comfort to still be able to feel the faint pull of his spark, so close to yours, even with your bridges closed. The sun set at some point while you were entranced, you realize, and night has fallen.

Chela takes the initiative, and steps backwards, off your legs. He nudges imperiously at your arm, and obediently, you transform, folding down and settling at his feet as a city. He doesn’t transform along with you. Instead, he sets himself down at your side, close enough that you can feel the heat of his ventilations against your buildings. And then he extends one shining wing to cover you, a shield and an embrace.

There is still no need for words between you. The euphoria of reunion and the pleasure of this closeness, that is sufficient. Chela quiets and stills beside you, and sheltered under the spread of his wing, you find your own peace and serenity. Gradually, you relax into the comfort of his presence, just as you can feel him relaxing into yours. Side by side, you rest together.


	60. Dust Up/Jumpstream: Teasing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/165215723711/relationship-dust-upjumpstream-rating-mature)

It feels like it’s been years since you and Jumpstream didn’t come home at the end of the day too exhausted to think of anything besides recharge. You don’t mind the work. You like staying busy. But it’s been a long time, and you’re still not used to getting back home with energy to spare and time to actually _do things._

So it takes you a few nanokliks to process it when Jumpstream asks if you’d like to use the cuffs tonight. Cuffs? You thought your next patrol wasn’t until tomorrow morning. Did you miss something on your schedule? You didn’t think— Wait. Oh. _Oh._

Jumpstream is already smiling as she watches you, but she laughs with delight as understanding finally dawns on you. She bends down to kiss your faceplate. “Is that a yes?”

It is a _very enthusiastic yes._ Just to be certain there’s no confusion. Once you’ve finished telling her just how enthusiastic it is, you ask, “When is ‘tonight’?”

She produces the cuffs from behind her back with a flourish. You shiver a little at the look on her face. “’Tonight’ starts as soon as you want it to.”

“Now is a good time. Now is an _excellent_ time.” It really has been much too long. You hesitate for a moment, but— “Did you want anything else? Or just cuffs?”

Jumpstream’s face lights up. _“Yes._ I just wasn’t sure if you’d be interested, since it’s been ages—” She stops for a moment, and opens a compartment in her arm. She pulls out lightweight cuffs designed to thread through your ankle wheel wells, a blindfold, and a vibrator you haven’t gotten to use in _much_ too long. You’re dying to know how much else she has stashed in her frame, but you’re a little afraid to know the answer.

“Yes,” she says. “That’s a definite yes.”

You love her so much. You reach up to wrap an arm around her neck and pull her down against you. You’re laughing, and she is too, but she’s the only one who has to worry about laughing and using her mouth at the same time. She’s leaving messy kisses all over your face and helm, and you’re having fun feeling up as much of her frame as you can reach with your free hand. She tries to set the toys on a side table, but she ends up mostly missing, and half the toys fall onto the floor. You could go and retrieve them. Or you could stay right here and enjoy the way Jumpstream still knows all of the most sensitive spots on your frame.

It isn’t a hard decision.

You do manage to stop being distracted eventually, if only so you can get down on your knees to hunt the wayward toys. Though as soon as Jumpstream grabs the cuffs you’re both extremely distracted again. She gets your arms cuffed behind your back, and leans on the cuffs with one hand to keep you where you are on your knees while she snags the ankle cuffs and the blindfold. You struggle a little, just for the fun of it, but you don’t put up any kind of real fight while she gets you under control.

She kisses you once on your faceplate, and then edges back just enough that you aren’t quite touching anymore. It’s a good time, when you can’t see or feel her, and she’s free to do just about anything she wants. She starts out gentle, with a few light touches to your wheels. You can already tell you’re not going to last long once she gets going, but it’s going to be completely worth it. And then her fingers dip into your hip joint, and it’s so _much_ and you weren’t expecting it, and you jolt sideways, away from her—And feel your head slam into the edge of the table.

“ _Ow.”_

Jumpstream’s hands are on you right away, pulling you out towards the middle of the room, taking your head in her hands and holding you steady as she looks over your helm. She kisses you again— and another time— and goes back to checking your helm.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I didn’t even think— That was my fault, I should have caught that before anything happened.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you tell her. “Really. It was just a surprise more than anything else.”

She hesitates for a moment longer, but bends in and kisses your faceplate again. “Still! We ought to relocate. Maybe do this in an actual berth instead of on the floor.”

You tug meaningfully at your cuffs.

Jumpstream stifles a laugh. “You can still hobble.”

“You’re not going to sweep me up into your arms and carry me off?”

Another kiss on your helm. “You’re heavy. And I don’t think the answer to hitting your head on tables is to go around hitting your head on door frames.”

You sigh and try not to laugh, and gently bump your helm up against hers. “Blind hobbling it is. Just be prepared for me to run into every piece of furniture we own.”

“I have faith in you!” She isn’t even trying not to laugh. Just look at her, taking joy in your pain.

You rock back on your heels, testing your balance. If you can get to your feet, you can probably make this work, but getting up will be tricky. “Just watch, you’ll find me starved to death, trapped in some corner, unable to find my way to freedom. _Then_ you’ll be sorry.”

When you make your first attempt to get up, your knees barely leave the floor before you almost overbalance sideways. You’ve already braced yourself for impact, but Jumpstream is there behind you, her hands on your arms, steadying you out.

“You know,” she says, “you _do_ have other options.”

“True, very true, I can just starve to death here instead.” You could be making another effort to get to your feet… But instead you’re just shamelessly leaning back against Jumpstream’s chest. Her hands are on you, and you’ve _missed this,_ and you don’t care whether she gets you back to the berth or whether she just frags you through the floor, right here.

She isn’t trying to push you along, she just wraps her arms around you, props her chin up on your shoulder, and leans the side of her head against yours. “It’s a shame you don’t have anyone at hand to give you some help. Somebody with uncovered optics. Somebody who could lead you around miscellaneous pieces of furniture.”

You keep leaning into her. This is everything perfect and wonderful, just the two of you, right here, nothing else to worry about, nothing to pull you away from this. You could easily spend cycles just like this, with her. But out loud, you say, “So you can lead me off a cliff to my doom? Not likely.”

“True, true. There are a lot of cliffs between us and the berth.” Her fingers are moving lazily over your plating. In some ways, you want to watch her while she touches you. But there’s something even better about making yourself helpless and just giving all control over to her. “I’ll tell you what, we can strike a deal. No cliffs, no furniture. But I _may_ walk you into a wall at some point.”

You pretend to think it over and sigh. “Looks like I’m short on options. Well… I suppose I can trust you.”

Jumpstream laughs. “Oh, _now_ you can trust me.”

It feels like all your circuits just turned to ice. You can’t move, can’t _think_ , but you can feel Jumpstream freeze too. There’s only silence for a long moment, neither of you moving, neither of you speaking.

Jumpstream jolts into motion first. Her arms wrap even tighter around you, her hands pressed flat against your chest, and she buries her face against your neck. “I’m sorry, Dust Up, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, I wasn’t trying to—”

You’re just glad she can’t see your face. It feels like someone else is saying the words when you speak, but you manage, “No. I’m the one who— You didn’t do anything wrong. _I’m_ sorry, I’m the person who has something to apologize for.”

She’s shaking her head. “Not— I’m not talking about that, I’m talking about _this._ There was no reason for me to say that. It wasn’t funny, it wasn’t _nice,_ the only thing it was good for was taking a shot at you. There’s no justification, none at all.”

“But if I hadn’t...” Your voice trails off. You still aren’t ready to talk about this, not really. You aren’t in any position to be making demands, so you’ll _do_ it. But you’re not ready. “If I hadn’t. You wouldn’t have had any reason to.”

“That doesn’t _matter_." Her arms are still locked tight around you. “I’m saying I just _hurt you._ I didn’t want to do that. But I did. It just— I wouldn’t have ever said that on purpose. I’m sorry. _”_

“Hey, hey, no.” Jumpstream sounds more upset than before. And it’s finally enough to finally get you thinking properly again. “No, I’m not— I’m not mad at you, promise. Just me. I’m mad at myself.”

But she’s already shaking her head. “I’m not mad at you! I— I do want to talk about it, eventually. So I can understand. But I’m mad at _me_ for pushing like that, and it was such a _cheap_ low shot.”

You’re still glad she can’t see your face. But as it happens, you’re starting to get a little desperate to see her, and get a better look at how she’s doing. To see her, to hold her, to be able to touch her, _something._ “Look, okay. If I had a hand free. I’d be holding your hand by now. Since I can’t do that myself, maybe you could…?”

You don’t have to elaborate. The words have barely come out of your mouth before she whips one hand away from your chest and grabs for your hands. The angle is awful, the cuffs are in the way, and she’s holding you so close there isn’t much space to work with. But you get your fingers tangled with hers, and that’s what matters.

After a klik or two, she stirs, sighs, and says, “How can I make this up to you? And no arguing that I don’t have to make up for anything.”

For a moment, you hesitate, thinking. “Reset? What if we reboot the evening to a point when things were going better, and we start again?” You give her hand a reassuring squeeze. “You pick. No arguing that I ought to choose the starting point.”

That gets a weak laugh from her, and you relax a little. She’s relaxing too. You can already feel how much less tense she is, and you lean your head sideways against hers. She says, "So here’s how it goes. Nobody ever lunged sideways into a table and made me fear for her life.”

“Her _life?”_ you protest.

“It was a very dangerous-looking table.” Her face is still pressed into her neck, but her hand has started roaming over your chest again, lightly tracing out the edges of your plates. “So instead of worrying about someone finding more was to injure herself, I was perfectly fine with fragging her into stasis in the middle of the floor.”

 _Oh._ “Stasis? That sounds like a challenge. Just for that, I’m going to have to make a point of outlasting you.”

“Of course, whatever you say.” She muffles another laugh and you can feel her smiling against your plating. “It isn’t like one of us has her hands and legs tied and is wearing a blindfold. We’re on a very equal footing.”

You could keep teasing, but. “Frag me into stasis?”

“Mmhm.” She’s still smiling.

All you can say is, “Prove it?”


	61. Chromedome/Prowl: Technological

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/165285868476/relationship-prowlchromedome-prowltumbler)

The first time Prowl lets you into his head, you don’t know what to expect. You expect it to feel like _Prowl_ , but that’s about the best you’ve got. You know he looks closed off and reserved—you know he _is_ closed off and reserved. And you know he’s been more open with you than with anyone else. But you still don’t have any idea of what he’s going to feel like.

As long as it took him to work around to decide that yes, he did want to interface, it’s taken him even longer to get comfortable with the idea of a hardline connection. You didn’t decide you wanted to frag him right from the start or anything. It took you a while to warm up to him, just as a person, never even mind thinking about the berth. You thought _you_ were the one taking things slow, right up until you asked him if he wanted to spend the night at your apartment and he completely froze up, worse than you’ve ever seen him do. But he did get there, eventually. And now he’s gotten here.

And even though the wait was frustrating at times, it’s worth it for _now._ There’s nothing like the way he watches you. When he brings his attention to bear like this, he’s still as quiet and restrained as ever, but it makes you shiver with the intensity of it all. It feels like you’ve got no secrets and no escape. And you don’t want to escape. But it’s hard to move, hard to even ventilate, when his optics are on you, just _watching._

Like now, for example. He’s straddling your lap, but he’d have you pinned just as easily with just the way he looks at you. His hand is resting against your chest. Your port is open, and you’re painfully aware of the sensation of his fingertips as they brush against your cable. But his optics are fixed on your face. You don’t know what he’s seeing. You can feel your spark flaring, hot and unsteady with how much you want him, but you’re frozen motionless under his touch, can’t look away, can’t move, can’t even say a word.

When he smiles down at you, it’s such a little thing, but you know how _much_ it means, coming from Prowl. He bends in to kiss you, slow and soft. And then like that, he pulls your cable from your port, and links it to his.

You shudder at the sensation of that first connection, and over you, Prowl stiffens, and you hear him gasp. You’ve left everything open to him. All of it, every last piece, from the start to right this moment, even the unflattering parts, even the times you did something stupid or selfish, even after you’d first met your new assigned partner and complained to your friends about how cold and standoffish he was. It’s tempting to filter some things out, make yourself look a little better. But you know how much it’s going to mean to him to be offered the whole picture. All the data, all the memories, every last piece of you.

And— To your surprise, he’s left almost everything open to you too. Both of you are still young. There’s not all that much history there. But you can trace Prowl’s life back to the beginning, every little thing he saw and thought and heard. It’s a little muffled. You think— He’s left the events open, but he’s shut the memories out right as they start to reach his emotions. It’s a feat of control that must be incredibly complex and difficult, and it’s so much _Prowl_ you have to laugh at yourself for not being sure what you’d find in here.

You feel a flicker of amusement from him, but he’s still caught up in your memories, in the sea of open, complete data you’re offering him. He retains enough control over his body to drop your cables and reach out unsteadily to touch your chest. You struggle to pull away from him enough to wrap your arms around him more firmly, but you do. Because this is _important._ But after that, you’re lost in his mind. You can see everything he ever thought of you. The criticisms of course, and both of you share a quiet moment of laughter as he picks over your own thoughts about him. This isn’t anything new to you. He was always frank. But the _rest—_

It’s. A lot to take in. You knew he cared for you, of course. But even dispassionately, even disconnected from all the emotional overtones, it’s overwhelming to see everything he thinks you’ve done well, every strength he thinks you have, every single thing he appreciates about you. You know he feels a lot more than he shows. But it’s one thing to know that and another to _see._

You can still feel Prowl in your processor, taking everything in, holding every single piece of information up for consideration before he moves on. No secrets, no mysteries, everything laid bare for him. Back in your body, his hand drifts up from your chest, along your neck, until he cups your cheek, holding you almost reverently. His other hand comes up to steady you, and he tilts your face up to him. He presses as close as he can, chest to chest, his frame against yours, kisses you, slowly, over and over and over.

You want to reciprocate, you want to show him how much you’re _feeling,_ but you don’t want to pull away from him, not yet. He’s opened his mind to you all the way back to the very start, you watch through him as his optics come online for the first time. You’re still half disbelieving that he’d show you _this,_ show you himself without information, confidence, experience, struggling to even make sense of what he’s seeing.

And at that moment, Prowl opens his emotions to you too. You weren’t expecting it, you weren’t braced. And you watch through Prowl’s optics as he comes online for the first time, but you _feel_ everything now too, you can feel him disoriented and confused, feel how lost he is. Feel how _afraid_ he is. In your body, it’s a struggle, but you let your hands slide further up his back, holding him as close as you can, trying to convey everything you can’t manage to say.

He gives you a gentle nudge back into his memories of you. It’s all there, all the emotion you knew he felt, everything that’s so hard to see past how self-contained he is. It’s hard, taking all of it in. The first moment he thought you’d be a tolerable partner to the first moment he realized how much he appreciated you. Fear you’d ask for a reassignment. Trust, admiration, affection, respect, loyalty, the desire to _protect_. Gratitude for how willing you’ve been to wait for him. Adoration, as he takes in everything you’ve offered him here, as he sees the scope of what you’re willing to give, and how much trust you place in him.

You don’t know where the _need_ originates between the two of you. But it burns in your frame and processor, echoing back and forth between you and Prowl, and you clutch at him, trying to find a way to somehow pull him even closer. You can feel how uneven and ragged his ventilations are, but yours aren’t much better. You’re torn between your body and the link, you need them both, you need _Prowl—_

He manages a bit more control than you. He rises up in your lap, pulling away from your face, but before you can even protest, he’s rocking his hips against you, and you are suddenly, overwhelmingly aware of the heat of his panel against your plating.

You couldn’t keep your panel closed if you tried. Your spike pressurizes, and before it’s even finished, Prowl’s panel retracts too, and you can feel the soft warmth of his valve as he moves against you. You can feel the lubricant as he grinds against your spike. Blindly, across the link, you reach for your memories of the first time the two of you interfaced. Prowl’s rhythm falters and he makes a shocked noise, slumping forward against you and clinging to your shoulders.

He retaliates fast enough, guiding you into his memories or that first time, the trepidation and uncertainty, but all of it buried under his unshakeable certainty that he could trust you. The fact that he’s letting you _see_ that, it’s almost too much. But then he takes you through the physical sensation, all so new and overwhelming, and all colored by the awareness that it’s _you_ doing this to him.

Back and forth between your encounters, all your memories of each other in the berth— It’s so much, it’s difficult to think, you’re so desperate for him, and you, you never knew it would be like _this._ You can’t do anything but hold him close and rock your hips as much as you’re able, past the input from the hardline.

Prowl eventually takes one hand from your shoulder—and he’s no more steady than you, it’s your arms around him that are keeping him upright—and reaches down between you. When he wraps his hand around your spikes, and you can’t help gasping, _“Prowl—“_

He rocks against you, still holding you against him. It only lasts for a few nanokliks before he stills and shudders. He makes a low, desperate noise as he overloads. You can feel his transfluid, hot against your plating, and you can feel it as he grinds down against you, riding out the aftershocks. But what’s more intense than any of that is feeling it happen across the link, all the sensation and emotion, everything he’s feeling and thinking, all amplified by everything _you_ feel, echoing back to him.

You aren’t going to last long. But when he reaches to your face with his free hand, you can feel him shaking as he touches your faceplate. His optics are still offline and he softly says, _“Tumbler.”_

You overload hard. You can’t look away from him. His hands stay on you, one on your faceplate, one on your spike, until you finally finish shivering. His optics came back online at some point, though you wouldn’t be able to pinpoint when. He watches you with a blank, unreadable expression as your spike depressurizes and you try to collect yourself. For a moment, you consider reaching to disconnect your cables. You don’t. And he must have felt that idea across the hardline, but he makes no move to disconnect you either.

Instead, he smiles. It’s a quiet little smile, but it’s _Prowl_ smiling at you and watching you this way. He bends forward again, and kisses your faceplate. He leans his forehead against yours and repeats, “Tumbler.” You’re still sharing every single thing you think and feel across the hardline. You don’t need any more words than that.

One of his hands still cups your helm, and he brushes a thumb across your plating as he watches you. Then his smile twitches a little wider and he kisses you again. By the time he finally stills and settles against you, he’s smiling as widely as you’ve ever seen him smile.


	62. Rung/Thunderclash: Whipping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/165355824976/relationship-rungthunderclash-rating-teen)
> 
>  
> 
> Warning for attempted play that tries to sidestep the whole safe, sane, and consensual thing.

Thunderclash asks you to hurt him.

Your first reaction is to look rather dubiously down at your frame. It hides the surprise, for one— this isn't exactly what you were expecting when he invited you up to his quarters. But asking _you? _You were never a large mech, even before the war drove people’s frames larger and larger, out to the limits of whatever their sparks could support. You began smaller than average, and only became relatively even smaller as time passed. You’re almost certain that Thunderclash could wrap a single hand around your waist if he chose.__

____

There are _ways,_ of course. Even with nothing but your bare hands, there are ways. However, you’re more interested in what Thunderclash is thinking, what he’s hoping to get from you. But there was no preamble, no explanation, no clarification, and even now, his face is completely still, calm and unreadable. He looks so much like his official portraits that it’s almost possible to convince yourself that this isn’t a real mech sitting in front of you. You watch him from the corner of your optic, but he doesn’t react at all as you look yourself over.

____

Mm. You stretch out a single arm and make a deliberate show of examining it, before you look up to him, and meet his optics. Not a refusal, tacit agreement instead, but with an unspoken question.

____

He does move then. He smiles faintly, and turns to a side table. He opens a drawer and reaches inside to retrieve something. And as large as his hands are, you can see the telltale loops of a coiled whip.

____

He hands it to you, with a murmured, “For your convenience.”

____

Your mind is racing, assessing the suggestions made by his request, the manner of its delivery, the fact he would ask it of a near-stranger, one who would seem particularly ill-suited to giving him what he desires. And the fact that when you examine the whip, not only is it electrically charged—not an especial surprise—but its strength goes well above anything you’ve used for recreational purposes.

____

Thoughts to consider. Later. For now, you aren’t certain you have enough data to draw accurate conclusions. But you think you may be about to come into possession of a great deal more relevant information. You draw the whip through your hands, feeling the heft of it. If you weren’t already more than comfortable with how to use one of these without risk of serious injury, you certainly wouldn’t be willing to use one as dangerous as this.

____

You tap the controls and ask, “Isn’t this a little much?”

____

“Not at all, for a frametype like mine. It’s not enough to do real damage.”

____

He’s lying, and you aren’t certain whether he knows you’re aware that he’s lying. Is it that he doesn’t realize you know, or is it that he doesn’t care?

____

After a moment, he adds, “And in the event of an accidental injury, however unlikely that might be, I would of course inform you and put a stop the scene.”

____

You don’t particularly believe that either. When he goes to his knees facing you, and when he makes a point of spreading his legs so his array is exposed and vulnerable, you believe him even less.

____

You take your time, charging the whip and getting used to the way it moves. Thunderclash waits patiently, but without quite managing to hide the hunger in his eyes as he watches your hands. You aren’t especially happy with the idea that he would try to mislead you in a setting like this. But this is better than letting him do the same to some mech less experienced, or more overconfident. He isn’t doing damage to someone who won’t recognize what’s happening. You know that you’re being used.

____

Well, even if you’re willing to be used, you still would like to know what you’re being used _for._ You keep your optics on your hands, but you’re paying close attention to him as you ask, “You don’t mind if I ask you a few questions while I work, do you?:” He shakes his head. You take a few steps back finding your distance and shaking the whip out at your side. You smile down at Thunderclash. “Good.”

____


	63. Chromedome/Rewind/Whirl: Penance/Punishment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/165383923216/relationship-chromedomerewindwhirl-rating)
> 
>  
> 
> Let's go ahead and warn for what basically amounts to emotional self-harm, with a bit of physical self-harm thrown into the bargain.

See, here’s the thing. You’re trying to avoid Chromedome. And Rewind. And _especially_ Chromedome-and-Rewind. Shouldn’t be that hard, right? You’re a busy mech, lots of things to do, lots of responsibilities _(pffft),_ and it shouldn’t be too difficult to avoid two mechs who don’t spend any time with you in the first place.

Right, yeah, it kind of complicates things when they come looking for you on purpose. Stupid stupid stupid, that was stupid of you, you shouldn’t have just been hanging around in public areas, you should have been _actively hiding_. To be fair, you’d assumed that they’d be way too busy with I-thought-you-were-going-to-die dramatic romance things to bother with _anything_ else, never mind you, specifically.

Too late, anyways. You have a few nanokliks of warning when you see them coming, but there’s no good escape route from Swerve’s. Nothing to do but stand and face your fate. _Ghh._

Starts out not too-too bad. Some more thanks for saving Rewind’s life, couldn’t have done it without you, Chromedome knows how painful the jump start must have been, yes, yes, _okay._ Not a single word about how Rewind ended up in a position where he needed an experimental medical procedure to save his life, which is a _shameful_ oversight on both their parts. Ha.

So that’s bad enough! And you’re dumb enough to think that might be the end of it? Yeah, no. Chromedome is starting to get emotional, which is making _Rewind_ emotional, and they keep giving each other these _looks,_ and now Chromedome is getting choked up when he tries to speak, and maybe if you fake your own death really, _really_ well, you can finally escape this conversation—

But before you can decide on a suitably messy death, Rewind turns exchanging another classic spark-melting Romantic Gaze with Chromedome to grab your claw.

“Sorry, can we just—?” He takes a half step backwards, turning to glance at the exit. “Not in here?”

You could say no. You don’t _deserve_ to say no. And it’s easiest and also the most... _appropriate_ to let all the worst slag happen to you. Especially right now. Especially if it’s these two doing it to you.

So you let Rewind pull you by the claw, through the bar, and out through the exit. Chromedome follows along beside you, with one hand resting on the back of your arm. You’re expecting them to, y’know, _stop._ Once they get you out into the halls. But they keep urging you along all the way back to their quarters.

Oh no. _Frag_ no. This is about to get _personal._ Or if you’re really lucky (unlucky? lucky?) maybe this is when they ask the pointed questions about how exactly Rewind got locked in a tiny little room with a bomb.

But the moment their door slides shut— _Oh._ Rewind turns and catches your other claw, and Chromedome moves so he’s right behind you, his hands on your waist. And you’re getting a _real_ good look at the berths sitting right there. In this room. With you. And these two mechs. No, nope, you’re definitely not reading this right, that is _absolutely_ not what is going to happen—

Chromedome says, “We wanted to show you how— how much this meant to us.”

Rewind adds, “If you’re okay with that?”

He’s looking right at your face. You are looking _absolutely anywhere except at his._ You do say something agreement-shaped. You mean. They want this. For some reason. And you don’t have… any reason to not-want it. Right?

Anyways, you say something that works out to ‘yes’, and that’s that. You don’t get much time to second-guess yourself afterwards, because Chromedome and Rewind spring _right_ into action.

You— Don’t really remember much of what happens? It’s all a bit of a blur. You’re pretty sure you spent most of it totally failing to contribute in any way. You could make some sort of excuse about how it’s been a while, or the way your claws limit your options when it comes to self-service. But seriously, you contribute _nothing._ Most of the moments you can remember just involves them doing things to you, and you guess you… sat there and let them do it?

But yeah, as much as you can’t remember it, _plenty_ definitely happens. By the time you finally stagger to the door, you have been fragged up, down, left, right, and sideways. You might not be sure how many times you overloaded, but you think you can go ahead and describe it as _many times._ Chromedome and Rewind even escort you out of their quarters. Isn’t that sweet? And you think Rewind might have caught on that you’re not so great with the being-thanked thing, but Chromedome keeps thanking you right up until you step out of the room. One of the only moments you can remember clearly is Chromedome burying his face against the back of your shoulder, and you watching Rewind as he reached around you to hold Chromedome’s hands. And before you can make your escape, Rewind says he’ll cut and edit the footage for your biopic by tomorrow. What? What is he talking— Oh. That—? Frag. _Frag._ You need to go, you need to _leave._

Instead of heading back to your quarters, you wander down to some unimportant, dusty corner of the ship, where it looks like nobody has set foot in the hallways since you left Cybertron. And then you punch a few holes in the walls.

Metal walls versus metal claws. You win the fight, but at what cost? Hahaha _hahaha,_ your claws aren’t even properly aligned anymore and you can feel something grinding when you move your right wrist. Your arms _may_ get jammed the next time you try to use your t-cog. Guess you’ll find out!

And _then_ you go back to your quarters. Time for some peace and quiet, right? It’s the burden of being so popular, having so many mechs _constantly_ begging you for attention. Right. You think you can probably manage a couple solid days before you have to leave for food. Plenty of time to relax. _Alone._ Yes. Nothing like that peace and quiet.


	64. Deadlock/Starscream: Object Penetration

You’re still adjusting to being a Decepticon.

You’re definitely still getting used to _Deadlock,_ but it’s more than just the change of name. It’s not all that different from life before, in a lot of ways. You’re even working with some of the same mechs as you used to. Maybe it’s the… personal interest Megatron’s taken. Lots of mechs joining up with the cause every day, plenty who are more vocal about the whole thing than you are, plenty who are actively out to catch Megatron’s optic with how well they can serve.

And here Megatron is, personally ordering the refit of your frame, scheduling assignments for you with other big names you don’t feel qualified to talk to, casually putting you in touch with all his highest ranking officers like there’s nothing unusual about the whole situation.

It’s fine, you’d find your footing and adjust. If Megatron is putting this much effort into getting you situated, that’s just more reason to be confident you made the right choice. It’ll be… fine.

For now, though, your more immediate concern is that _Starscream_ stopped you on your way out of training in the shooting range, spent a klik making something like conversation, and is now blocking your way while he looks you up and down in an uncomfortably appraising way.

Finally, he says, “Well you _do_ polish up pretty, don’t you.”

You— Don’t know how to answer that. You look the same as you did when you were recruited. You’ve gotten a bit of a refit, sure, but you haven’t even changed the detail work on your chassis.

He glances up at your face, sighs, and flicks his fingers dismissively. “Please, the upgrades on your joints are right there in the open, and it’s _obvious_ watching you move that you’ve had deeper work done too. Just take the compliment.”

You don’t know how to answer that either. Starscream is starting to smirk as he looks at you, but you don’t know what he could be reading off your face.

He steps off around you, circling behind your back, and you can practically feel his optics on your plating. Your way forward down the hall is clear now, but you don’t move until Starscream comes around to stand in front of you again.

He looks you in the optics and drawls, “Well? Were you ever planning to reply, or do I have to do _all_ the work to invite you back to my quarters?”

You freeze. Just for a moment, but you know he sees it from the way the corners of his mouth twitch. Part of you wants to jump right to _yes, absolutely,_ and a larger part of you is certain that can’t _possibly_ have been what Starscream just said. But when you open your mouth, what comes out is, “That was supposed to be an invitation back to your quarters?”

It’s his turn to freeze now, and you can see his orbital ridges rise as he _looks_ at you. But then he laughs, loud and sharp, grinning more broadly than you’ve seen him do before. “Oh, you’ll suit _just_ fine.” He turns away and starts off down the hall, waving a vague hand at you. “Come on, then, if you’re interested.”

You hesitate for a nanoklik longer, wrestling with the question of whether or not you are interested. He’s attractive enough, one of the flashier fliers you’ve met. He’s _Starscream._ And he’s the one here expressing interest in _you._ Nothing wrong with you, obviously. But it’s really something knowing you stand out enough that you’d manage to catch _Starscream’s_ eye. Maybe if you’d thought this was a question that would ever, ever come up, you would have given it some consideration and have a better idea of how you feel.

As it is, you think _aw, frag it,_ and go walking quickly off after Starscream before he can pull too far ahead.

When you pull even with him, he glances briefly your way, then pulls something out of his subspace and tosses it to you. You catch it before your processor can parse what you’re seeing, and by the time you connect the dots, you’re already holding an— an impressively large false spike.

You manage not to react outwardly, but your voice is a little bit strangled when you manage, “Interesting.”

He hums in unconcerned agreement, but when you steal a look at his face, you think he’s trying not to laugh. “Guess who,” he says.”

“This is a _person’s?”_

He does laugh out loud then. “No, a replica, obviously. I _do_ have my limits.”

Does he? Does he really? Because as it is, you’re still walking down a public hallway carrying what’s apparently a replica of a real, actual person’s spike.

You still haven’t quite pulled your your words together,. Before you can say anything, he turns to you with a wicked smile and says, “Megatron.”

Your plating burns. All the way from your finials down to your pedes. You never thought you’d be hooking up with Starscream until two kliks ago, never mind— You mean, a mech can dream, and you’re sure plenty of mechs _do_ dream, but—

But you know what? He’s having this all his own way. You’re not having a bad time, not by any means, though even if this is _Starscream,_ you’re not going to let him steer this whole thing on his own.

So you make your voice as dry as you can manage and say, “Which you just carry around in your subspace.”

He gives you a sharp look, but he’s still grinning. “As opposed to carrying it… openly, say?”

When he’s not busy taking you by complete surprise, he’s not going to be able to embarrass you _that_ easily. It’s not exactly what you were expecting from Decepticon high command, but you’re not some fresh-forged newspark who doesn’t know what interfacing is, you’ve seen a thing or five in your time.

“I’m just transporting goods a superior officer handed off to me,” you tell him. “If anyone asks, I’ll be sure to let them know.”

That gets you another burst of delighted laughter and a predatory grin that sends a shiver down your spinal strut. But you haven’t missed the way he’s leading the two of you down back hallways, ones you didn’t even know were here, and since he took the false spike out of his subspace, you haven’t seen another mech.

It doesn’t take long before he stops in front of a nondescript wall and slides aside a hidden panel on the wall to reveal an access pad. He slips between you and the pad as he enters a code, but you aren’t trying to spy. While he’s distracted, you take an opportunity to look over the spike. It’s— Proportional, for sure. You’ve known larger mechs and you’ve seen larger spikes, but not _many._

Before you can get much farther than that, the wall slides open, and Starscream plucks the spike out of your hands and saunters on through the hidden doorway.

“ _This_ is the entrance to your quarters?” you ask.

“This is _an_ entrance to my quarters. Perks of rank, you know.”

You’ve walked into Starscream’s washracks, apparently, so you’re glad this isn’t supposed to be the main way in and out of here. It’s nice and clever, reminds you of some of the fancier apartments you were able to afford, back when work was at its best. Good to have multiple exits from your home when you’re making your income in exciting and illegal ways.

Starscream heads right on forward without pausing, You aren’t surprised when he leads you straight to his berth chamber. Now that you’re somewhere private, you’re itching to get your hands back on that toy of his.

At the foot of his berth, he turns to face you, still smirking, holding the false spike in both hands. You nod towards it. “Any plans for what you’re going to do with that thing?”

“Oh, I have _plenty_ of ideas,” he purrs.

That doesn’t help much. You’ve got plenty of ideas too. But you don’t even feel exasperated, not really.. You step forward and reach out for the toy, and after a half moment of hesitation, he lets you take it. You say, “Any ideas you’d care to _share?”_

You’re watching him from the corner of your optic, so you catch the way the corners of his mouth twitch up. “Well, I don’t suppose you can be expected to take something of _quite_ this size at this point in the game, so we’ll just have to—”

“I can take this,” you interrupt.

There’s silence, and when you look up at Starscream, you let yourself smile a bit at how derailed he looks right now.

After a moment, you add, “Give me a klik or two to work up to it, but this isn’t going to be a problem.”

“ _Really,”_ is all he says, but his slow, spreading smile and appraising look send a rush of heat all over your plating.

You boost yourself up onto his berth before you can second-guess any of this, because you’re about to have _Starscream_ fragging you through his own berth with a replica of _Megatron’s_ spike, and if that doesn’t start happening as soon as physically possible, you might die.

You reach down between your legs, letting your panel slide back. Your spike pressurizes fast enough, but you rest your fingertips against your valve, taking a moment and steadying yourself.

But before you can do anything, Starscream nudges your legs further apart and steps between your thighs. “Allow me,” he says, easing your hand away.

“Sure,” you begin, and you don’t get much further than that, at least not with words.

He starts with three fingers, which is the best kind of ache right now, even if it really drives home that it has been a while, and you need to take your time. Once he has his fingers buried inside you, he doesn’t move for a few nanokliks. He’s watching you, but you can’t quite read his face right now. You’re fighting the urge to ask for _more_ when you really do know you ought to _wait,_ but you can’t fight the way you’re grinning so wide it makes your face ache.

“Acceptable?” he eventually asks.

You shrug as casually as you can manage. “For a start.”

Then you have to bite back a desperate noise as he spreads his fingers wide, stretching you further open. He gives you a moment to recover, but then he’s fragging you with his fingers, fast and hard, the heel of his hand pressing against your node and the base of your spike with every thrust. You put one hand on his shoulder to hold yourself steady, and toss the toy aside so that you can wrap your other hand loosely around your spike. Not with any urgency, you don’t want to end this any sooner than you have to, but it feels so _good_ as Starscream works your valve.

He adds another finger just as you’re trying to sort out your vocalizer enough to ask for it yourself. You bite your lip, ventilating hard, as he fills you. He doesn’t slow down at all, which suits you perfectly. He works you open fast enough that it’s riding the edge of what you can handle, and that’s just the way you like it. It’s not long before he can spread all four fingers inside you without pain, you just feel the stretch and a deep pressure that’s not _quite_ enough.

He could probably get his whole hand inside you with a little more work, and for a moment you _badly_ want to ask for that. But then your optic catches site of the toy sitting beside you on the berth, and. _Megatron’s spike._

You drop your hand from his shoulder just long enough to reach for the toy. Your hands are shaking, minutely, which is embarrassing. It really has been too long. But you hold out the toy to him without hesitation, and it comes out almost like a demand when you say, “I’m ready.”

Of course, _now_ is when Starscream decides he’s going to take his time. You’re ventilating hard before he even starts. And you could take this right now, take the whole thing in one go—probably—but once he pulls his fingers out of your valve, he just lets the head of the toy rest against you, not moving it. You try to keep your hips still, you don’t want to show how badly you want this. From the smug way he looks at you, you think he guesses well enough anyways, but you can’t even resent him for that right now.

When he finally slides the spike into you, you bite your lip. He’s moving so slowly you can feel every moment the growing burn as the head stretches you. You can feel it when the head clears your entrance, and relax. There’s only a moment or two of relief before he moves again, pressing the spike deeper and deeper. You’re just about ready to bite through your lip, and it’s all you can do not to yank Starscream on top of you and demand that he frag you _faster._

The world narrows to the pressure of the toy inside you, pushing up against what feels like every node in your whole valve, and the itching burn around the rim of your valve as it stretches you further and further. You feel it the moment the spike hits your ceiling node. Your hips jerk up against Starscream’s hands, and you make a helpless, wordless noise. You think your engines might be about to overheat, but this is _completely_ worth it.

You’re waiting for Starscream to go to town and really frag you. But you feel him tap something on the base of the spike, and then you _definitely_ feel it as the toy magnetizes, locking in place against you. You curse, loudly and not very coherently, and you think your legs are shaking a little, but you’re still grinning with delight, and Starscream looks about as satisfied as you feel.

All you can do at first is run some shaky vent cycles, trying to recover a little of your equilibrium. A replica of Megatron’s spike is inside you. _Megatron’s_ spike. Inside _you._ But you’re not forgetting who you’re in the berth with in the first place. Your hand is still on Starscream’s shoulder, and now that you’re pulling your thoughts back into order, you can feel his vents pouring off hot air just the same as yours are.

You pull him up closer against your frame, and bite your lip again as the false spike shifts inside you. You manage, “If I’m using your toy, what will I be doing for you in all this?”

Starscream pauses for a moment, then reaches up to take one of your finials in hand, tilting your head and kissing you hard and deep until you’ve nearly forgotten you asked him a question.

Then he takes a step backwards, reaches into his subspace, and pulls out— another false spike.

He smirks. “Who said I only owned one?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/171293470366/relationship-deadlockstarscream-rating-explicit)


	65. Chromedome/Rewind: Orgasm Delay/Denial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/172465663726/relationship-chromedomerewind-rating-mature)

You're on the verge of overload when Rewind pulls his hand away. You're so close, just one more touch,  _ anything _ \-- You aren't sure if you're shaking with the need to overload or with how much effort it takes to keep from chasing Rewind’s hand and begging him for that little bit more.

Instead, you end up clinging to his shoulders with your head bowed, shuddering helplessly. Your array aches. Your spike is stiff, slowly leaking transfluid and your valve is worse. As your head hangs, you can see a drop of transfluid well up at the top of your spike. Rewind reaches down with hand to brush it away, and almost,  _ almost-- _

A helpless little whimper slips out of your vocalizer before you can stop it, but Rewind’s hands are on your face, soothing you, his fingers stroking over and over your faceplate. 

You take a deep, ragged ventilation, trying to center yourself. “That's good,” Rewind says, “That's perfect, Domey. Nice and slow. Nice and steady. Just like that.”

You try to focus on the feeling of his fingers against you, focus on the way his plating feels underneath your hands. You try to match your ventilations to his, and you lose the rhythm of it a few times, your fans running so fast it feels like you'll explode out of your plating if you go that slowly. But Rewind is patient as you struggle, his hands still soft and gentle in your face. The  _ need _ you're feeling never fades, but you slowly manage to push it away, wall it off from the rest of you so the urgency is a quieter presence in the background of your thoughts, not dominating every bit of your processor.

You realize your face is pressed into Rewind’s chest, and you're not sure when that happened. A part of you wants to just stay like this forever, but the rest of you is still humming with the desire to please and  _ earn _ this comfortable peace with him. He’d probably argue if you tried to phrase it that way, but honestly, that only makes you love him even more.

Finally, you manage to pull back and smile at him. Not that he can see, but you know he hears it. And you can see that he knows it in his optics as he looks back at you. 

He leans his forehead against yours for a moment, his arms sliding around your neck and his ventilations quiet and peaceful for all you can feel how hot his fans are running.

Softly, you say, “What do you want me to do?” 

Rewind stays where he is for a moment, his optics dimming, taking his time. You relax even further, relaxing into the feeling of his frame pressed against yours. 

Eventually, he says, “Let's start easy. If you give me three overloads, I'll consider giving you one.”

You shiver with anticipation, but can't help saying, “Only three?”

He laughs. “Three to  _ start. _ I didn't promise anything, I just said I'd consider.”

You lower your hands from his shoulders, letting them drift down over his chest and waist to rest at his hips. Your frame is still running hot, but… a comfortable hot. You can maintain this for a while without any problems. Rewind is still looking fondly down at you, and you say, “Then I guess I'd better make sure these are some good overloads.”

He laughs once, pleased, and strokes one thumb over your faceplate. “I already know you will.”


	66. Arcee/Sunstreaker: Emotion Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for two mechs with bad coping methods and bad communication skills using sex to deal with emotions.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/172815032706/relationship-arceesunstreaker-rating-mature)

Your face is buried against Arcee’s valve when abruptly she says, “I had a brother.”

You force yourself not to flinch, not to react not to— anything. You still freeze for a moment before you manage to force yourself back into motion. You press your glossa against her node, reach up to grope blindly for her spike. You’re not here for this. You’re not here for _talking_ or for _emotions,_ this is about keeping your mind so busy you don’t have time for any of that slag.

She wraps a hand around your finial, pulling your head down against her, and you start to relax again. Of course, that’s when she adds, “He died.”

You jerk away then, yanking your finial out of her hand as you go. You do try to take a moment to collect yourself, you don’t want to look— embarrassed or angry, you don’t want to look like anything at all. It takes a moment longer than you’d prefer before you think your voice will come out evenly. “Right, and why am I supposed to care?”

Arcee doesn’t say anything, just looks down at you all calm and collected like you didn’t have your mouth on her array two nanokliks ago. She doesn’t grab your finial again, but her hand is still resting against your cheek. You don’t pull away from it, you just _want_ to. You don’t know if it’s supposed to be comforting, and you won’t lie, you came to her because you were pretty sure she doesn’t _do_ comforting, but it feels like you’re being examined more than anything else.

Just when you’re about to pull away altogether and give this up as a bad idea—as a _worse_ idea than you already knew it was—she lets her head drop back against the berth so she’s just looking up at the ceiling. “A month ago,” she says.

You feel a little stab of guilt. A _little._ It hasn’t even been a week since Sideswipe— It hasn’t even been a week, and it seems like things will never stop feeling this raw and unreal. A month isn’t much longer than that. You’d been pretty sure that after so long at war, you were over this whole ‘grief’ thing, that you didn’t care about mourning, and that’s worked out just _fine_ for you for thousands of years. Millions. Until now, apparently.

And you haven’t said anything, but Arcee just sighs. There’s emotion in there, you can tell there’s some sort of emotion, but you don’t know what kind. Her hand is still against your cheek. Just as you’re noticing it’s still there, she drops it, and instead she urges you up onto your knees and over her. Her hand finds your spike, and your fans skip a beat. None of the tension has left your frame, none at all, and you still need to burn off this energy and hopefully get exhausted enough to sleep.

Her legs wrap around your waist, nudging you forward. You _feel_ her array against your spike, but she doesn’t take her hand from you until she’s guided you into her valve. Once you’re buried in her, you stay where you are for a moment, feeling a shiver run up and down your spinal strut. You’re not planning to let this end too soon, you need to wear yourself out so you can just collapse into your berth afterwards.

Arcee says, “Optimus killed him.”

That startles you, and it’s not from a direction you were expecting and between the— the _conversation,_ and the feeling of her valve around you, you can’t quite muffle your reaction in time. Without pausing to think through whether you ought to say it, or even _want_ to say it, you ask, “Your brother was a _Decepticon?”_

She looks down at you again, sideways, smiling oddly in a way you can’t read. “My brother was Galvatron.”

You’re frozen for an uncomfortably long moment. She reaches around you to get both hands on your aft, and says “Move.”

You jerk into motion before you think to argue with her, and after that, you’re not going to _stop._ You still want a good fragging (but you don’t want to have this conversation) (but you _need_ to burn yourself out into exhaustion).

She plants her feet against the berth and arches up against you as you thrust into her, and for one glorious moment, you think she’s dropped the conversation. No such luck.

“I’m sorry about Sideswipe,” she says.

You almost shout at her. You almost— you don’t know. You manage to force out, “I don’t want to talk about him.”

She shrugs. “I don’t want to talk about my brother.”

You drop your head so she can’t see your face. That’s just great. To add to all the other emotions you can’t pin down, now you’re not sure if you want to laugh. You don’t. Didn’t, and still kind of don’t. But part of you wants to at least smile. “You just— Everything you just said was about your brother.”

Her hands shift from your aft into your hip joints. You bite your lip so you don’t make a noise when her fingers brush against your wiring. When you glance up at her, she’s frowning slightly.

“No it wasn’t,” she finally says. You don’t know how you’re supposed to respond to that, so you don’t say a word. After a moment, she adds, “It was about _yours.”_

Not an explanation you wanted to hear, and not one that you know how to react to. You just got done telling her you don’t want to talk about Sideswipe. You don’t want to talk, don’t want to listen, don’t want to _anything—_ You try to focus on what you’re doing, try to distract yourself from your thoughts enough to pull yourself back under control. You can feel the charge building in your array, can hear _her_ fans running faster and feel her vents pouring off hot air. You’ve always had a knack for distracting yourself from things you didn’t want to think about.

Arcee hasn’t said a word more, she’s just watching you, her fingers still buried in your hips as you move against her. Finally, in desperation, you tell her, “I don’t _do_ grief.”

She only shrugs, and doesn’t look at all upset. “Neither do I.”

You can’t stand the way she’s watching you. It’s— too much. You feel trapped. All you want is to find something that will distract her enough to get her to stop _looking_ at you. She’s got her legs locked tight around you still, but you manage to get one hand between the two of you and get your fingers wrapped around her spike. You don’t play gentle or nice, you start off with rough strokes, and a part of you almost hopes it _is_ too hard.

But she only sighs with satisfaction and lets her head fall back again, her optics dimming. That— helps. Not having her optics on you helps. You still feel too raw, too exposed, but it’s enough of an improvement that you can handle it.

And before you can wonder too hard about where to go from here, she overloads underneath you, quietly, with only the shiver you can feel running up and down her frame and the transfluid dripping over your hand to tell you what’s up. You’re almost there. You’re driving hard against her chasing the overload you can feel just out of reach, hard enough you half-expect complaints, but she doesn’t say a word, just works her fingers even deeper into your hips.

That’s enough to tip you over the edge. You lose track of everything but the sensation for a moment, and it’s exactly what you’ve been after since this started, a small window where everything is too _much_ and you can’t think about anything except what’s happening to you right there and then. You slump against Arcee, shuddering, as the overload sweeps through you, and hold onto that feeling for as long as you can until it fades away completely.

Once it’s over, you pull back from Arcee and tip over sideways, sprawling on the berth. It’s taken the edge off, but you can already tell you won’t be able to fall asleep, and you’re going to be wanting to crawl out of your frame again in a few kliks. Not really a surprise, but still a disappointment. You flip through the other ‘bots you know are stationed on Earth, trying to think through who else might be up for something tonight. Trouble is that you know most of them will want to _talk_ and offer their _sympathies,_ and you really don’t want to get in trouble for starting a fight whenever things get to be too much.

Arcee is watching you again, you realize, It’s not so bad now, at least. Now that you’ve burned off a little energy, you can handle it. The silence is comfortable enough, but you’re not sure what she wants and it’s starting to make you tense up again. Abruptly, she says, “You’re not satisfied.”

Well. You stare blankly at her, not sure what you’re supposed to say. It was— fine. It was good. There was nothing wrong with it. You just aren’t worn out enough to get any rest. But how are you supposed to say that politely?

You didn’t say a word, but she nods. “I can frag you until you’re so tired you fall straight into stasis.”

You take a moment, reset your optics, replay that audio to be sure you heard her right. “You’re making some pretty bold claims. I’m not sure you can follow through.” Never even mind _how_ she guessed what you were after. You have no idea where half the things she says even come from.

“I can.” She says it without any hesitation and with complete, absolute certainty.

You reset your optics one more time. But you know what? Sure. Why not. You stretch and smile as Arcee rolls over to kneel on the berth and hoists your legs over her hips. You look up at her and grin. “I’d like to see you try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/172815032706/relationship-arceesunstreaker-rating-mature)


	67. Optimus Prime/Soundwave: Choking/Breathplay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning in this story for characters failing to play safe, sane, or consensual.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/173014279756/relationship-optimus-primesoundwave-rating)

When Optimus invites you to spar with him, you aren’t certain whether he means to spar or whether that’s only an excuse. He isn’t certain. He doesn’t know what he wants, and he doesn’t even know why he’s come to you. You can hear it in his thoughts as you follow him through the halls of Autobot City. He wants a Decepticon, an officer, an ally, a peer. All of them and none of them. He questions every step of the way whether he should fabricate some excuse to call an end to this—whatever it is—and leave.

It begins with sparring. It ends with something else altogether. Not until you’ve both left injuries on each other that leave each of you staggering, what might have been killing injuries if not for your respective skill. It takes everything you have to keep up with him, and by the end you feel the pulse of anger and _intent_ in his mind, beating against the edges of your own thoughts. Ultimately, you begin to drift in the force of those emotions enough that it takes you some moments to realize that you’re flat on your back, Optimus astride your waist and mouthing roughly at your neck cables, the blade in his hand still digging into your shoulder.

The blade cuts into your cabling as he kisses and bites at your neck. You aren’t sure when he retracted his mask, and neither is he. His hips rock down against yours, and if he still can’t decide what he’ll ask for, you can still feel the desires for war and release both. Energon from a wound on his hip drips steadily down his leg and over your frame, and with every shift of his hips, his knee digs into a fractured plate in your side. You lift your hands to his waist, deliberately letting one rest over the injury. He moans low against your neck, and you feel the uncertainty in his mind sharpen into something more sure.

Optimus pulls away, sitting up looking down at you with bright, burning optics. He realizes he’s holding the knife still and sets it casually aside. Energon drips from your shoulder onto the floor. You can feel the heat of his panel against yours. You can feel the _intent_ and focus of the fight warring with arousal in his mind, your hand against the wound you inflicted, but your plating hot and ready against his. He still gives no indication he knows what he _wants,_ but you can feel him decide what he’s going to do. He opens his panel, and as you feel him make that decision, you open yours. Your hands still rest on his waist, but you don’t guide him at all as he seats himself on your spike.

You don’t react outwardly, and neither does he, but you can feel the combined relief and continued dissatisfaction that washes through him. His hands itch for the knife again. There’s a sharp moment of guilt from him, but then his optics light on your Deceptibrand, and you feel him settle. He rides your spike, ignoring the way his wounds trouble him, just as you ignore yours. You feel some of the dissatisfaction smooth from his mind only to be replaced with anticipation, tempered with the slightest hint of guilt.

Optimus bends forward over you, but he makes no move to kiss you again. His hand rests on your chest for a moment. It moves to your shoulder. Then to your neck. Slowly, and you can feel the hesitation in his mind, half-expecting you to tell him to stop. Some part of you is tempted to tell him to take these urges and impulses back to Prowl, and to face them without the excuse of the Deceptibrand on your frame. The rest of you wants to see how far he’ll go.

His hand clamps on your neck with less than his full strength, but more than enough to stop the flow of energon to your processor. His fingers dig into the key fuel lines, your vocalizer compressing painfully under his grip. You can feel him asking himself what he wants. How far he’ll take this. He doesn’t stop rocking on your spike. He moves his free hand to his own spike, touching himself as he moves against you. He doesn’t loosen his grip on your neck.

The decreased energon flow is beginning to affect you. Your vision blurs and glitches. You aren’t certain if you could speak if you tried, given the crushing grip Optimus has. The guilt presses more heavily in his thoughts, but so does the desire. He doesn’t need to stop, he rationalizes. You haven’t complained. Would he need to stop even if you did? You are a Decepticon after all, one of the highest-ranking surviving officers. Every Autobot knows what Soundwave did over the course of the war. If he said you tried to kill him, would any of his mechs challenge him?

The questions never coalesce into determination. Your vision blacks out and you hover on the edge of stasis, with a data packet ready to send to all Decepticons in range if he makes a decision. He wavers, but in the end he tells himself that it wouldn’t be _noble,_ not when he’s graciously forgiven you your past and you’ve pledged your service to him. His grip loosens, but you can feel the sharp edge of regret as he releases you. Your optics come online in uneven flickers and your vocalizer spits static, and you can feel the surge of arousal in his mind as he curls forward over your chest. He finishes with a moan, spilling transfluid across your plating, and you follow him moments later.

Optimus stands, shakily, but reaches out a hand to help you to your feet. “We should do this again,” he says, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/173014279756/relationship-optimus-primesoundwave-rating)


	68. Jazz/Soundwave: Sensation Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/173017188846/relationship-jazzsoundwave-rating-t-maybe-a)

Luring Jazz is the simplest part. No other mechanisms on the planet play music files out loud, only Jazz, and he has a tendency to gravitate towards any organics playing local music. It’s a simple plan, but it works. You have a powerful sound system, and you choose a song, select a part of Autobot City where sound will carry, and settle in to wait.

It doesn’t take long. He radiates suspicion from the moment he arrives, but you aren’t concerned. This is within the bounds of what you’ve planned for.

“Awright,” he says, “I’ll bite. What are you after and why should I listen? Don’t try to say it’s nothing, because we both know I’m smarter than that.”

Rather than try to explain out loud, you send him a brief comm summarizing your proposal.

You have the satisfaction of seeing Jazz caught off-balance. He opens his mouth, hesitates. Underneath the suspicion, you can feel confusion and a trace of embarrassment. Finally, he says, “All this to ask me to give you a good fragging? _Really?”_

“An exchange,” you say.

He settles down, almost laughing. “Okay, I’m listening. Tell me why I should be interested.”

Again, in place of speech, you send him a comm listing all the music files from your archives you think he will find of interest.

He freezes, his mouth hanging open. “You’re _kidding._ You have _Litany to Solus Prime?_ Nobody does, it was lost when—” He cuts himself off, staring hard at you. “You’re not offering to give me these files. I’m good, but no one frag is worth that.”

You shake your head, but here, you think, you’ll have to speak. “Soundwave: most sophisticated sound system on this planet.” You stop yourself there. Privately, you grimace. If your syntax is slipping this easily, you must be doing more poorly than you’d thought.

Jazz hesitates still, and all you feel from him is indecision, still with that thread of suspicion running through it. You brace yourself for disappointment, but he sets himself and says, “Fine. Let’s make this happen.”

The encounter itself passes in a blur. Jazz takes the lead, almost defiantly, half-expecting you to seize control yourself. You make no move to do so. You follow where he takes you, letting yourself be overwhelmed by sensation, and doing your best to lose yourself in everything you can feel of his thoughts and emotions as he takes his pleasure in your frame. You hold to your control of yourself with everything left in you, only half-aware of the things Jazz gasps (laughs?) about _endurance_ and _stamina._

 _W_ hen you come down from your last overload, there’s a faint tremor running through your hands, and you aren’t certain your legs would support you if you tried to stand. You assess how exhausted you are with some satisfaction. It may not be everything you wish for, but it is more than you’d hoped to achieve.

Jazz lies on top of you still, without any apparent intention of moving. You can feel the same satisfied exhaustion in his mind as you feel in your own. His optics are offline, and you doubt that means much to a mech as capable as he is, but a part of you wishes he would think about whether the gesture means anything further to him.

After a klik, Jazz shifts, and you brace for him to leave. He doesn’t. He lifts one arm and raps his knuckles on your plating. “Music time,” he says. “I think I’ve earned my keep.”

You can’t argue with that. With some focus, you pull your speakers under your control and ask, “Selection?”

He sighs, his hand still resting on your plating. “Mm. I think we can start with the _Litany.”_

You comply.

You don’t sleep, not like this, but the exhausted half-aware drift is the next-best thing, with just a slight thread of focus needed to maintain the audio playback. Jazz’s thoughts settle into a quiet background hum, almost fading to nothing. For a moment, you’re concerned, but then you realize his full attention is on the music, following along with every note and nuance of the song, blending into the melody until they’re almost inseparable to your senses.

After a klik, you feel a vibration you don’t recognize running through your frame, and you lift your head and raise a hand with some concern, looking for the source, but your fingers only run into Jazz’s side.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, not moving. “’S my motor. I can stop it if you want.”

You rest your hand on Jazz’s side, feeling the vibration reverberate through your palm and down your arm. Now that it’s brought to your attention, you realize that this part of the sound isn’t in your original file. It’s Jazz, but it blended so well with the whole you hadn’t realized.

You let your head fall back to the floor. “Harmony: acceptable.”

He laughs, once, and makes no move to remove your hand from his frame. “You keep having good taste in music like this, and I might be tempted to keep you around.”

You don’t reply. You relax, letting yourself slip into the music and his thoughts again. The vibration of his frame under your hand almost reminds you of— of Ravage. The thought makes you tense, and you try to let the memories slip away from you, but they won’t leave, not entirely. Slowly, you slide your hand to Jazz’s back and let it rest there, holding him against you, the hum of his motor still reverberating through your frame. He doesn’t protest. You let your optics dim, and feel a little more at ease.

The song begins to come to a close, and before you can ask Jazz what he wants to hear next, he says, “Your choice. Go ahead, surprise me.”

You do as he says. And like that, feeling the warmth of his frame against yours, you let yourself drift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/173017188846/relationship-jazzsoundwave-rating-t-maybe-a)


	69. Drift/Ratchet/Skywarp: Bodily Fluids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is robots with an organic breastfeeding kink. I refuse to explain myself. Just be forewarned before you go any further.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/173248420091/relationship-driftratchetskywarp-rating-mature)

Ratchet isn’t happy about this. Maybe that means you oughta think about applying the brakes to this, but honestly, pretending like you don’t even notice when he’s getting annoyed is one of the funnest games you’ve found. Drift is playing it similar. He’s smiling a little to himself and taking sidelong looks at Ratchet and answering every irritated remark with perfect, placid calm. You couldn’t pull that off without cracking up, but you’ve gotta respect his methods.

And honestly, Ratchet being ticked about this means that you’ve gone from not being so sure about trying the weird organic…  _thing,_ to being absolutely, positively dead set on giving it a go.

Siphoning, like, everyone knows _about_ siphoning, even if they’ve never tried it. And even if some people try to say that it’s just a refueling thing, the harder they protest means the more sure you are that they _know_ it’s totally a kink thing.

But who knew that organics could do siphoning too? You guess it’s not… quite the same. From what you can tell, when you cut open a human, none of the other humans are looking at that like fuel. But come on, they have built-in equipment designed to _dispense food._ How kinky is that?

Ratchet snaps, “I’m not happy about this.”

You knew that already, and he’s been letting you know over and over again for the last few days, so instead of trying to argue, you swoop in and kiss him _right_ on the lips before he can shove you away. You drape your arms over his shoulders and grin at him. “But just think now annoyed you’d get if we catered to everything you ever wanted.”

You hear a choked-off laugh from Drift, but Ratchet just snorts and pushes you a few steps back. “Hold still and stay where you are. I need space to work, and if any of these energon hookups aren’t secure, you’re going to be just as unhappy about the situation as I am.”

You can manage standing still for a little while, you _guess._ Ratchet’s tinkering around in your chest, which feels weird as anything, but you can deal. Drift moves over your way, quietly, hovering behind Ratchet’s shoulder and watching him work. You blow him a kiss over Ratchet’s head, and he grins.

Finally, Ratchet steps back, setting his tools aside on a side table. “That’s as good as it’s going to get for temporary gear— And permanent gear is not going to happen, I really hope you weren’t even _thinking_ of asking.”

You weren’t, but now you kind of wish you’d tried, just to see him pop a gasket.

Ratchet stomps away to the other side of the room and sits down, pointedly. “I’m staying here to make sure you don’t rupture a line and bleed out. Don’t expect me to participate.”

You just grin, because setting him off right now might be funny, but it’ll just delay the best part of the evening. Plus you just had Ratchet go through attaching this weird organic-ish gear to your frame, so it’d be a shame not to try it out, right?

Drift steps up to you, now that Ratchet’s backed away, though he’s eyeing your chest with some skepticism. “Are you sure about this? Regular siphoning is just fine, and—”

And before he can talk himself out of it, you lean in and kiss him. It only takes him a moment to adjust and return it, and that’s relaxing and normal, nothing new. Ratchet snorts again from across the room, and you and Drift almost loose the kiss as you both fight not to smile, pulling yourself back under control.

He reaches up with one hand to touch your new chestplate, hesitantly, and you can’t help a shiver at how _weird_ that feels. Soft plating—not plating at all, really, but what else are you supposed to call it?—is just _wrong,_ but you guess if you aren’t getting into fights or going off flying, there’s no reason it can’t work. Ratchet doesn’t like taking so much protection away from your spark housing, but you’re not going to get into fights in the berthroom.

Drift runs his hand along the soft covering, and you’ve got the sensory hookups that you can _feel_ it give under his fingers. It’s got some structure, but it’s so much more yielding than your usual plating is that you shiver again. You can feel your array starting to respond. Part of it’s because you’re always up to try whatever kind of new kink comes your way, but part of it is because even before this goes any further, just that little touch feels painfully intimate.

You reach up one hand beside Drift’s, feeling your chest along with him as you keep kissing. He presses into you, wrapping his free arm around your waist to hold you close. You can hear his fans starting to kick up, and kisses, kisses are safe familiar territory. This is just an experimental bit of plating and some good old-fashioned siphoning. Nothing to worry about, plenty to enjoy.

So you reach your free hand down between his legs and press it against his panel. He makes a pleased noise into your mouth and drops the hand on your back down a little lower to squeeze your aft. Under both of your hands, you can feel your chest— The energon hookups are open, that’s why Ratchet’s here and why he wont’ leave you two to play alone, but it’s a totally foreign sensation feeling your new chest fill with energon, feeling it go taut and heavy, with less give under your hand. And it’s _sensitive._ You knew the sensory connections were being built into things, you _insisted_ on the sensory connections being built into things, but that’s different from actually experiencing it.

Just the full, heavy tension is finally enough that you pull back from the kiss. You have to reset your vocalizer before you can talk. “I think you should….” Your voice trails off. What do you even call this?

Drift catches on fast enough, though. _“_ _Oh—_ You mean…?”

You nod, because that’s easier than talking. But because you’re watching for it, you catch the way Drift’s optics flare bright. And you can definitely hear how loud his fans are running and feel the heat of his panel under your hand. That helps, knowing that you’re not the only one affected by this whole thing. Even when you steal a glance at Ratchet, he looks uninterested and vaguely unhappy, but he isn’t saying a word to interrupt the proceedings.

You and Drift have to separate a little to make it to the berth, but it’s only a few steps to cross. You hop up onto the berth and he follows. After thinking for a moment (you should have planned ahead) (planning is for losers, hahaha), you set your back against the wall, and Drift shifts forward to rest between your legs.

Hopefully, he can’t hear the nerves in your voice when you say, “Like this, I think?”

He nods once, short and tight. “That seems good.”

Haha, this is awkward, it’s _so_ awkward trying to get settled in together. And by the time you get limbs and wings sorted out with him lying almost across your lap-, your chest feels so full it almost hurts. You nudge Drift’s head downward, and no matter how embarrassed both of you are, he doesn’t hesitate. He rubs his finger over, over the— whatever it is, it’s _sensitive,_ and your fans skip a beat. Before you can recover, he bends down his head and _drinks._

Oh, it’s a struggle to stay still. It’s not that much, sensation-wise, but it’s so new and different that you already feel totally overwhelmed. You can feel energon flowing out of you, you can feel the pressure and ache receding. Drift’s lip work against you, and you can _feel it_ when he swallows.

You don’t know what to do with your arms. You thought this might be over soonish when you were planning it out, because with siphoning, you’ve only got so long before you need to patch up that injury. But here? It’s so much slower, moving only at the pace that Drift drinks. His plating is pressed right up against yours, and his mouth is still against you. You tentatively settle your arms around him, holding him there, and he breaks away from your chest for a moment to sigh happily.

He glances up at you and grins. “It’s good,” is all he says before he lowers his head again, and you bite your lip and try not to jump as his mouth meets your plating again. Nobody _ever_ said this was going to be so sensitive. Drift was already running warm, but now, he’s practically burning up against you. His optics are dim, and he rests one hand on your chest as he drinks, the other one curled between the two of you.

Carefully, without jostling him too hard, you nudge him. “Drift. Hey, Drift.” His optics brighten and he glances up towards you. You grin. “You should touch yourself.”

You can feel him smile against you—these parts are so _sensitive—_ but he shifts just enough that he can reach down with one hand and palm his panel.

You’re torn. You don’t want to look away from him drinking, but you _always_ want to watch Drift touch himself. You’re settled when you catch his panel opening from the corner of your optic, and watch as his spike pressurizes into his hand. He makes a soft, small noise against you and you gasp before you can help yourself. He drinks, sucking at your chest hard enough you feel an answering tug between your legs. And as you’re frozen, torn on what to do next, you see Drift reach between his legs and get a finger on his node.

You can feel _that_ reaction in his frame, for sure. He arches into you, and breaks away from your chest just long enough to gasp, _“Ahh—”_ But then he sets his mouth to you again, and drinks with even more urgency than before.

Frag. You have to touch yourself. You are going to _die_ if someone doesn’t touch your array, and Drift’s busy. You can just barely manage to slide one hand down between the two of you, though you keep your other hand wrapped secure around his shoulders. Your panel opens the moment you touch it, and just that is enough of a relief that you bite your lip again, your optics flickering and resetting.

At this angle, all you can really reach is your spike, but that’s more than enough. You keep your optics locked on Drift as he drinks, his hand moving between his legs. Every time his lips work against you, you feel yourself inching closer and closer to overload, but you don’t want to finish before he does, you want to _see—_

You manage to hold on, barely. You’re right on the edge when Drift’s falls into overload, his head jerking back from your chest and a trickle of energon running down his cheek. When you glance over you can see him rubbing frantically at his node, making little helpless noises that aren’t quite words. You don’t have a hand free, or you’d help, but all you can do is watch as he pushes himself over the edge and shakes through overload, curling in towards you, shuddering.

It’s enough to finish you off too. You can’t do much more than hold Drift where he is, your head bent forward over him as you work your spike. The overload is such a relief that you gasp out loud, your vocalizer glitching out and resetting. The lingering ache in your chest is at the front of your processor, and the sensation feels like it draws the overload out even longer than usual, and you shiver through the aftershocks, Drift still held tight against you.

He recovers first, of course, and by the time your optics are back online, he’s already smiling up at you, broad and open, and he reaches up one hand to your cheek and guides you down into a kiss. You’re more than fine with that. You’re happy to draw it out, long and lazy, basking in the afterglow.

The afterglow is interrupted by Ratchet doing— something at the edge of your side plating where it meets the new chestplate, frag if you know what. Before you can ask, he says, “Switching off the energon flow.” He pauses and gives you a pointed, exasperated look. “Unless you were planning to go another round?”

You burst into laughter, and Drift is grinning too. He reaches up to take Ratchet’s arm and pull him down for a kiss of his own. And of course, since Ratchet is in kissing distance, you can’t let him straighten up without giving him a good kiss or two before he goes. Between the two of you, it’s a little while before Ratchet’s allowed to stand upright again, but he doesn’t even bother pretending to be irritated.

He flicks you in the side, and says, “I’m getting this thing off you before you can find an excuse to keep it.”

You’re not going to make any promises about keeping it for future _temporary_ use, but you aren’t going to say no to having your real chestplate back on your frame again. You wriggle your way out from under Drift, and he stays where he is lounging on the frame, with a warm smile, looking content and lazy. You catch Ratchet giving him a fond look when he thinks you aren’t watching.

Ratchet’s got his hands buried in your internals in no time flat. You can’t resist saying, “If you’re going to take the fun out of the situation, are we allowed to give you some boring, conventional attention next?”

Drift laughs and Ratchet snorts, though even with his head bent, you can _just_ see the edge of a wry smile on his face. He finishes putting your chest back in just about no time flat, and the moment he’s done, you tug him back over toward the berth. Drift sits up to make room for you, and once you’ve got Ratchet there between the two of you, there’s _plenty_ going on to keep you distracted.

So for a moment, you’re very confused when Ratchet pulls away from a kiss to say, “Don’t either of you dare _think_ you’ve got me anywhere close to considering joining in with your siphoning slag—”

You couldn’t hold back the laugh if you tried. Drift’s face is buried against Ratchet’s shoulder, but you can see his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Ratchet makes a face, but he’s smiling, and you can’t help yourself, you just laugh and laugh even while he pulls you down to kiss you deep and run his clever hands over and over your plating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/173248420091/relationship-driftratchetskywarp-rating-mature)


	70. Brainstorm/Perceptor: Dirty Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/173405068316/relationship-brainstormperceptor-rating)

So it’s like this.

Perceptor wants to know about your (your!!!) time machine, and also, not to jump to any unjustified conclusions or anything, but it _kind_ of sounds like he wants to know about more than just your time machine, _if you know what you’re saying_ (you’re not sure you do).

Except that you’re not even left to stew in uncertainty for more than a few kliks, because Perceptor’s fans start spinning up on the way back to your lab, and he reaches out to grab your hand when you’re still a few corridors away, and then— Oh _Primus,_ then the moment your door closes behind him, he pins you against it and you get a moment or two to swoon before he bends in and starts kissing your neck.

You disengage your mask so fast you manage to actually drop the silly thing, but you don’t even see where it bounces, because Perceptor immediately lifts his head up and starts kissing you (you!) on the mouth, hard and deep.

It’s… distracting? It’s very distracting. You forget all about why he wanted to talk in the first place, and most of your mind is occupied with calculating the right moment to reach down and get a hand on his aft, and even when he breaks the kiss, he leans back and smiles, and his optics are on your mouth and you can _hear_ his fans, and you temporarily lose the ability to think about anything whatsoever.

He takes a step back, but he takes your hand and pulls you with him, urging you towards a chair. He says, “Tell me.”

And oh, _that’s_ right. Time machines. Only the main focus of your whole life for years and years and _years_ and years, easy to forget about those. You’re still trying to unscramble your thoughts when he pushes you down firmly into the chair and— And he nudges your legs apart and, and goes to his _knees_ on the ground in front of you.

Time machines, you have to talk about time machines, or this might _stop._ You don’t manage to start at a simple, accessible spot, no no no, you stumble right into the middle of things, where you’re too deep in science for a random onlooker to know what you’re talking about, but not close enough to the endpoint to see where you’re going with this. That’s— cool, that’s good, hahahaaaa, now how can you backtrack without looking like an idiot?

But even while you’re babbling and _definitely_ not making much sense, Perceptor’s optics are locked on your face, and just— Primus, how long have you been sighing over how intense he gets when he’s trying to solve a puzzle? And now he’s looking at _you_ that way. He’s even smiling, just a little faint smile, but it’s there, all while he listens to you tell him about _your_ time machine.

When he slides one hand up your thigh to rub at your array panel, you just about choke on your words and almost lose your train of thought. You recover, though that stumble _must_ have been super noticeable. And when you lose the fight with your self-control and your panel reacts, he bends down to take your spike into your mouth, and you almost forget how to speak altogether.

Ha, no, you’re— you’re definitely a guy who does this kind of thing all the time, you’re really cool and suave and definitely know how to deal with this. A hot, smart mech’s mouth on your spike while you tell him all about your scientific masterpiece? Just another day, you do this _all_ the time, right.

It might throw off the act a little that you can’t manage to pull your optics away from watching his mouth moving against you, you can, you can see _everything._ This is really happening. It’s _really happening._ And your fans skip a beat as he raises one hand and lets his thumb rest against your node. You won’t lie, you kind of want to beg him for something _in_ you, except you’re worried about how fast it’ll end if you do that, and when are you going to get another chance like this again?

Except— Oh. Ohhhh, you can see his spike pressurized between his legs too. You’re explaining why it’s _okay_ that your equations violate the laws of physics, which is a pretty interesting part of the engineering process, if you do say so yourself, but you almost forget what you’re saying when you realize you can see Perceptor’s spike, pressurized because of _you,_ pressurized because he’s talking to _you,_ and— He isn’t touching himself, but you can see his hips rocking as he listens to you. He makes a noise against your spike as he shifts, and you still have trouble believing this is really _happening_ right now.

Of course, just as you’re starting to adjust to things, he looks up again and locks optics with you, and you make a choked, embarrassing sound that you will deny ever happened for the rest of your life. He doesn’t take his mouth from you, but you can feel him laugh, or, or maybe it’s a moan, but his optics flicker and you can feel the heat pouring off his vents, and there’s only so much a mech can _take,_ and you fall into overload.

You try to warn him, even though you’re losing track of all your words and you think that half the sentence may have actually been about quantum physics, but you think he gets the idea because he pulls back. But then he stops and his optics dim, and he takes your spike in his hand, stroking you while, while— That’s your transfluid all over his face, and his glossa licks a drop of it from his lips, and a significant part of your processor still isn’t managing to believe that all this is _real._

You did lose control of your vocalizer somewhere in there, because you’re not talking anymore. You’re not even sure exactly where you left off. Perceptor’s optics flicker back online as your spike depressurizes. You’re maybe a little frozen, not sure what’s… next. You don’t know how these things go, you’re only _acting_ like a mech who does this sort of stuff all the time. Perceptor’s spike is still pressurized, and you really, really want to offer to do something about that for him, but how?

He solves the problem for you by leaning his head on one of your thighs and moving his hand down to his own spike. You can see him run his fingers from base to tip, and when you look back up at his face, he smiles lazily up at you.

“Go on,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/173405068316/relationship-brainstormperceptor-rating)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [you won't even see my lips move](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6371377) by [oriflamme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oriflamme/pseuds/oriflamme)




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